A Heart Shaped Box of Springs and Wire
by dances with irrelevancy
Summary: Mike and Peter did not share his enthusiasm for applying the scientific process to Davy, even after Micky explained about systematic investigation, controlled conditions and dependant variables. Especially after Micky explained about systemic investigation, controlled conditions and dependant variables...
1. Chapter 1

**NOTES:** Oh thank GOD! It's done! This started off as a story. It quickly turned into a lumbering behemoth. Apologies for spamming anyone with this.

This was written for the Monkeesfest on tumblr/livejournal, in response to elvira_was_here's prompt: "Davy/Bandmember – any rating – Davy falls in love with a different girl constantly. So often that it already feels a bit unreal… What if it is just that? What if he is just faking it? And why would he do that?"

Title is from Jonathan Coulton's 'Mandelbrot Set' :)

Feedback is, as ever, really appreciated.

******Summary**: 

**Pairing**: Eventual Micky/Davy

**Warnings**: Zip. Nada. **  
**

**Disclaimer**: I don't own The Monkees - this is done purely for fun. Please don't sue!

* * *

To begin with, it wasn't much.

A niggle.

A naggle.

A nitpick.

A cavil. You couldn't even call it a carp – it was probably a more minor species of fish…like a minnow, or a sardine. It wasn't much, but it _was _there, causing the barest ripple of disquiet in Micky's mind.

And it had to do with Davy.

Sure, on the surface, everything looked fine. Better than fine, even. Davy was _Davy – _their regular pocket-sized Lothario, their amorous adventurer, the original starry-eyed romantic. Micky had often figured that if they could just release Davy instead of an LP, their success would've been so inescapable, not even Houdini could've wiggled out of it. The universal libidinous appeal of one Davy Jones could not be denied.

That was…provided you didn't look too close. Because once you _did_, then all these tiny little details started snagging on your subconscious, and before you knew it, your entire perception of Davy was chock-full of pulled threads and holes.

Sure, the size of the girlish horde trying to claw its way to Davy dispelled a certain amount of suspicion…but then again, the size of the girlish horde trying to claw its way to Davy also _inspired _suspicion. Because as tireless an advocate for romance as Davy was, it just wasn't _possible_ to go through girls at the rate he did.

See, Davy had a different girl for every day of the week…but…it didn't seem like he knew what to _do _with any of them. Sure, there was some chaste hand-holding, or maybe some innocent kissing on the beach, but that was about as far as it ever went before Betty or Barbara or Brianna skipped along the sand and tripped out of Davy's life forever.

Davy himself seemed happy enough with this state of affairs, but that was another red flag, right there. Sure, Micky knew that a lot of the time there were extenuating circumstances standing in the way of true love, like crazy fathers, or villainous uncles, or kidnappings, or even occasionally the myriad demands of running a frozen dessert empire…

…but it was a little weird given Davy's obvious penchant for damsels in distress, that in all the time Micky had known him, he had yet to wrangle even one damsel into a state of dis-dress.

Micky wasn't saying there should be a constant parade of nubile chicks trooping in and out of the downstairs bedroom, but…well, _shouldn't_ there be? He'd seen the way those girls looked at Davy, right down to the most well-brought up ice-cream heiress. All bashful yearning, aimed at him from under half-lowered eyelids. Disinterest was not the problem, here. At least…not on the _girls'_ side. And there was a difference between being a gentleman, and winding yourself up so tight steam started coming out of your ears. But Davy'd gone past that point maybe fifteen girls ago, and there was still no sign of him turning into a sexually frustrated fog machine.

It was an anomaly, an irregularity…a kind of black hole of ignorance that, once noticed, continued to swirl and drag at Micky's attention, demanding more and more thought and consideration.

Sure, Micky could _theorize. _He could come up with any number of potentially valid reasons for Davy's puzzling reluctance to deal with a girl when she was laid out on a flat surface.

Like…maybe Davy had the opposite of vertigo – so he got jittery whenever things started moving in a more horizontal direction. Horizontigo. Or…horizonti-_no_-go.

Maybe there was some kind of language barrier, and every time a girl said, "Ravish me, Davy!" he took it in an antiquated sense, and started discussing the history of British expansion, which couldn't be considered 'pillow talk' by any stretch of the imagination.

Or maybe as the lone representative of jolly old England in 1334 North Beachwood, he felt like he needed to set a good example, which meant a life of self-defeating chivalry, a bed devoid of chicks or crumbs, and no noise after midnight.

But the thing was…Micky didn't _know. _Not for sure. Therefore, the scientific process demanded a methodical study of the situation, with extrapolation to follow from only the most rigorously determined and carefully monitored tests.

Sure, the scientific process seemed abnormally interested in Davy's circumstances vis-à-vis chicks and the bedding thereof, and the scientific process could have thrown a 'please' in there, but at the end of the day…who was Micky to deny _science_?

Also, he was bored.

* * *

Like all good systematic procedures, Micky began with –

**OBSERVATION**

It was not difficult to observe Davy with girls. It was like watching…well, watching a Monkee in his natural habitat. Except for the noticeable fact (made even more noticeable by documented surveillance) that Davy only ever skirted the perimeter of the jungle.

_**Evidence: Situation the first – Olive Wintergreen. **_

"She's beautiful, heavenly, fantastic…" Davy said to no-one in particular, as he watched her retreat. Mike and Peter made vague 'here we go again' noises in the background. Micky wasn't entirely sure how Davy'd come to such a strong conclusion based on the five lines of dialogue they'd exchanged as she hired them to play at her father's retirement party. Still, he ignored Mike's raised eyebrows and dutifully noted the words in the small notebook he'd acquired for the purpose of monitoring Davy.

Micky _also_ noted that for someone who was 'beautiful, heavenly,' _and_ 'fantastic,' Davy sure didn't seem all that cut up about it two days later when she retreated out of his life forever.

_Outcome_: one emotional thank-you hug for rescuing a retirement party from chaos, two shy kisses (one doorstep, one beach) followed by the inexplicably sudden departure of one beautiful, heavenly and fantastic girl, resulting in…

…a sanguine Davy.

_**Confirmation: Situation the second – Sabina Santuzza**_

"She's breath-taking, angelic, wonderful…" Davy opined.

"She also doesn't speak a word of English and she's being followed everywhere by those two bodyguards," Mike pointed out, as said bodyguards grimly hefted Sabina away, still blowing kisses at Davy.

"Well…nobody's perfect," Davy said, catching the incorporeal kisses in his hands, and absently stuffing them into his pockets.

"How do you spell angelic?" Micky asked, as he jotted this development down in his notepad. Mike frowned at him.

"S-A…hang on a minute – how d'you spell _Sabina_?" Davy asked.

But, even after rescuing Sabina from the attentions of a rival – whose wooing had less to do with romance and more to do with uncovering the secret recipe that made Santuzza Kitty Chow taste so good – it seemed that 'breath-taking, angelic,' and 'wonderful' were not sufficient incentives for Davy to pursue a long-term relationship, and Sabina departed, with a final _Ciao _for Davy, as well as a final bag of Chow for Peter.

_Outcome_: many extravagant air-kisses, one exuberant embrace (post secret-recipe retrieval), one sick-as-a-cat-after-eating-an-entire-bag-of-Santuzza-Kitty-Chow bassist, and the incomprehensible disappearance of one breath-taking, angelic and wonderful girl, resulting in…

…a mildly wistful Davy.

_**Overkill: Situation the third – Jane Grayson.**_

"She's gorgeous, celestial…er – _clean_," Davy told them with bright-eyed enthusiasm.

"Clean?" Peter queried.

"S'an important quality. Next to godliness, that is," Davy said.

Everyone waited for Mike to chime in, but he was blinking at Micky. Micky suddenly realised that he had been mouthing the adjectives in concert with Davy.

"Um," Mike said. He shook his head. "She was wearing a veil, Davy. How do you know _what _she looks like?"

"She had a certain 'je ne sais quoi.'"

"What does that mean?" Peter asked.

"It means 'I don't know' sounds fancier in French than it does in English," Mike told him.

Of course, Davy was right – and under the veil Jane Grayson turned out to be a tiny knockout. She also turned out to be as transitory as the rest of Davy's girls, in spite of her celestial cleanliness. After they'd helped her out of the veil and away from the stranglehold of her goldfish trafficking cousins, she had just about enough time to make her gratitude known before she was whisked away.

_Outcome_: several longing looks, one farewell cheek kiss full of suppressed passion, an aquarium full of goldfish that no-one knew what to do with (until Peter inadvertently solved the problem by cleaning the tank with dishsoap and laundry detergent – while the goldfish were still in residence), and…

…a jarringly upbeat Davy.

Afterwards, sitting on the stairs, Micky recorded every little detail, from the first starry-eyed sparkle to the final dimming darkle of disinterest, with some brief diversions into the effects of alkylbenzenesulfonates on gilled organisms.

He snapped his notebook shut with a sigh of relief…

…only to jump as he raised his head and met Mike and Peter's eyes.

* * *

The others did not share his enthusiasm for applying the scientific process to Davy, even after Micky explained about systematic investigation, controlled conditions and dependant variables. _Especially_ after Micky explained about systemic investigation, controlled conditions and dependant variables.

Mike flat-out said, "Man, you are just asking for trouble, capital T, heavy on the rubble." He stopped. "What do you even want to do a thing like this for, anyway?"

"I want to figure out how Davy works," Micky explained.

"Well, that's easy – he doesn't," Mike said. "At least, not unless we get a gig anytime soon."

"But don't you think it's a little weird – he has all those chicks, man, but…they never hang around."

"Why would they hang around," Mike asked, "when he's got all those chicks?"

"Well, yeah, but – he never seems to get hung up on any of them."

"No point in getting hung up if you know you're gonna get taken off the hook again in a couple of minutes," Mike said.

It was strange – what he was saying made a certain kind of circular sense, but there was something in the way he said it…a kind of bright briskness that discouraged further questioning.

But then he gave a shoulder-loosening sigh, sounding much more Mike as he said, "Look, it's just…poking through people's minds is a lot like going through the garbage. You don't do it unless you've got a pretty good idea of what you're going to find. And if you already know what you're going to find…then why are you poking around in the garbage in the first place?"

"Science demands a hands-on approach?" Micky hazarded.

Mike closed his eyes.

Suddenly Peter said, "If you're experimenting on Davy…and Davy's a Monkee…doesn't that make this an animal rights issue?"

* * *

Later that night, out of nowhere, Mike's sleepy voice floated over to him. "What about that society girl? You know, the one who ended up marrying the Prince?"

Micky jerked back toward wakefulness. "Hmm?"

"Prince Ludlow – you know, Davy's double? Short, brown hair, pathological fear of females?"

"That _does_ sound like Davy," Micky agreed with a yawn.

"No – he just _looked _like Davy. Or sometimes, when they were both in the same shot, he looked more like the back of Davy's head. But remember – Davy ended up wooing that chick for him and convincing her to marry him? Remember?"

Micky blinked up at the ceiling at this sudden insistence on strong-arming him down memory lane. "I don't think now's the best time for a flashback, Mike. It's a lot of expense, and it's just the two of us here…"

"I just mean – you said Davy never gets hung up on girls…well, he seemed pretty hung up on that one."

"Oh yeah," a vague memory stirred. "Whatever happened with that?"

Mike paused, then added with unfortunate honesty, "Well…he found a girl who looked like her, and that seemed to take care of things. But my point still stands!"

"Yeah. Like the Leaning Tower of Pisa."

There was the sound of a sigh. "You know, I still don't get why you want to do this."

Micky thought about the look on Davy's face when he first spotted a girl, that absorbed, dreamy kind of focus, and then, just as quickly, Davy's unaffected expression post-girl flashed through his mind. Like she didn't matter to him anymore. Like she'd _never_ mattered to him.

"Scientific curiosity," he said, though that didn't quite seem to describe the itch he felt, an incompleteness that only _knowing _could satisfy. It was the kind of drive that made him take transistor radios apart, and then put them back together again. Because if you _could _do it – if you _could _do it…then – why not?

"Yeah, well, curiosity killed the cat, but _scientific_ curiosity stuck the cat in a box and now nobody can figure out if it's dead or not," Mike said grimly. "If you're not careful, you're gonna end up with a paradox on your hands."

"You really think it's such a bad idea?" Micky asked. Mike didn't answer, and the itch kept twitching under his skin, like a fire ant, ready to sting. Still…Mike _was_ their fearful leader. Generously, Micky offered, "I guess I _could _always just study you, instead."

A brief, thoughtful silence followed before Mike decided, "Go bother Davy." He turned in the bed, and in a voice muffled by blankets, he added, "Just don't say I didn't warn you."

And, just before they both fell asleep, he mumbled, "Wendy Forsythe. That was her name."

* * *

"See – it's a pattern," Micky said, the next morning. He waved his notebook in Peter's face.

Peter squinted down at the thick lines of text in front of his eyes. "I guess if you turned it on its side, it _would_ look a little like plaid," he offered.

"No, man," Micky said impatiently. "I'm talking about the fact that every time Davy gets a girl – and I mean _every time – _something comes up. And not the usual thing you might _think _would come up. It's persistent, it's pernicious, it's perfidi" –

"What does it _mean_?" Peter interrupted.

Micky deflated. "I don't know. I mean – I can _guess, _but it's just conjecture, you dig?"

"Is that what Mike calls 'idle speculation and mean-spirited rumor-mongering'?"

Micky brandished the notebook. "Does this look '_idle'_ to you?"

"Why don't you just ask Davy?" Peter asked. "If you really want to know."

"Ask Davy?" Micky stared at him. "_Ask_ Davy? Yeah, right. Use your head, Pete – it's not like I can just march up to him and say" –

* * *

"Davy! David! Mr Jones! Hey, over here!"

Davy jumped at the sound of Micky's voice. "What're you doing?" he hissed. He seemed kind of agitated and off-balance, which Micky noted with interest.

"Any comments, Mr Jones?" he called, several decibels louder than necessary. "Statements, announcements…on the record of course – our inquiring readers want to know."

Davy winced as the too bright light of a camera went off in his face. "Yeah," he said. "Just one. Why're you following me into the bathroom?"

"That's a question – not a statement," Micky told him, then, as he pulled a pencil from its resting place behind his ear, "and there's nowhere I wouldn't go for a chance at the scoop of the century."

"Scoop of the century?" Davy repeated. He flicked wet hair out of his eyes and hoisted the towel around his waist a little higher. Micky watched him with interest, because you never knew when small details might become important in a wide-ranging investigation such as his.

"Olive Wintergreen? Sabina Santuzza? Two days ago – _Jane Grayson?_ '_Davy Jones __Has__ Girls – Davy Jones __Loses__ Girls_,'" Micky proclaimed, one hand traveling from left to right, as if envisioning a headline. "It's lower on the scandal-scale than the caption makes it sound, but it'll sell," he said. "So…what went wrong?"

Davy blinked at him. "What – nothing went wrong."

"So it all went according to plan, is what you're saying. _Davy Jones: Heartless Heartbreaker _– I can see it now! Extra! Extra!"

"Hang on a minute," Davy said. "That's slander, that is. You can't put that in a paper – it's not true!"

"Isn't it? You don't seem too broken up to me."

He raised his eyebrows at Davy, who looked taken aback at being challenged, before rallying. "Well – that's because I'm the – strong, silent type."

Micky reached out and poked him in the stomach. He had a half-second to appreciate the warm firmness of skin against his index finger before Davy flinched, saying, "Ow! _Hey_ – what d'you want to do that for?"

Micky didn't reply, just licked the stub of pencil and began to write in his notebook. Absently, he toyed with the idea of further tactile experimentation on Davy's anatomy. When this thing was cleared up, obviously. Sure, there didn't seem to be any _pressing _need for it, but Micky could dig some interesting avenues of exploration in trying out–

"What're you writing?" He twisted his body to prevent Davy getting a look at his notes.

"What about the rumors that your wild lifestyle drove a wedge between you?" he asked.

"Wild…" Davy repeated, before he suddenly laughed. He smiled at Micky, a wide, appealing flash of white teeth, and sank onto the side of the bathtub, palms held open. "Well, they must have me confused with someone else – because I 'aven't _got_ a lifestyle. Can't afford one."

Their eyes met and Micky couldn't help but grin back, because there was an empty refrigerator downstairs that testified to the truth of _that_. He released the pushy lead-reporter persona and gave up, sitting down next to Davy. Their legs touched through the layers of pants-fabric and towel and it gave Micky this jolt of warmth – friendship, and probably the residual steam from Davy's shower – in his chest. And it was that combination that made him turn to Davy and ask, honestly, "Davy – what happened with those girls? For real?"

Davy looked at him, then away. "I don't know. Things just – didn't work out."

"But why?" he persisted, voice quiet. His arm bumped against Davy's. "Why didn't they work out, Davy?"

There was a long silence, and when Davy turned back to face him, Micky held his breath. He could see every fleck in Davy's irises, and it felt like there wasn't any space for secrets between them, not when they were so close.

But then Davy shrugged lightly, and said, "Maybe I just haven't met the right girl yet."

"Maybe," Micky said, non-committal. It was a theory. It made some amount of sense. But…as he watched Davy get to his feet and head for the door –

"Hey, Davy," he called. Davy turned around. "You ever think about that Wendy Forsythe chick?"

Davy frowned. "Who?"

– Micky just didn't buy it.


	2. Chapter 2

Observation (with a brief and futile detour into direct inquiry) was like the first step on a ladder – it led neatly onto the next rung…

**HYPOTHESIS. **

_Davy didn't like girls._

Well, that wasn't _strictly_ true…Davy seemed to _like _girls just fine, given how much of his time he spent in their company. Maybe it would be more accurate to say that – Davy didn't _want _girls.

It was a wild claim, but all the available evidence seemed to support it. After all, Davy had the female of the species eating out of the palm of his hand (along with Peter…but that had happened while Davy had been holding some Kitty Chow. Micky was writing that incident off as an outlier) – but Davy had never, not once, ever tried to take advantage of that. Not even when Jane Grayson tried to show him the Dance of the Seven Veils while she was six veils short.

And sure, you _could _put that down to chivalry, propriety…good table manners…but at the end of the day, there had to be a point where the red-blooded American in Davy just _snapped, _no matter how cold-bloodedly British he was.

Unless Davy didn't _want_ girls.

* * *

Micky kinda got stuck on **HYPOTHESIS** for a while, because it was like Peter's cooking…hard to digest.

_Davy didn't want girls_.

He thought it in _The_ _Kaleidoscope Club, _when Davy sang soulfully down at Lori Morris, an act that would ultimately involve them in a scheme involving forged fossils and yet another museum break-in.

_Davy didn't __**want**__ girls_.

He thought it while he and Lori's sister (the one who had been dating the crooked paleontologist) watched Lori kiss Davy. In the background, the curator tried in vain to reassemble the dismantled dinosaur skeleton (with what could charitably be called 'assistance' from Peter and Mike). Micky noted that Davy's hands were on Lori's elbows, keeping a certain amount of distance between their bodies. It might have just been coincidence.

_Unless Davy didn't want __**girls**_.

He thought it, almost defiantly, while staring across the kitchen table at Davy, the day after he and Lori broke up.

"You all right?" Davy asked, tilting his head to the side as Micky studied him.

"Oh, I'm fine," Micky said. He didn't mean to, but he laid a little bit of stress on 'I'm'. Next to Davy, Mike stiffened, and shot him a warning look.

"You sure about that?" Davy said. "You ate all of Peter's chicken jelly."

"You didn't even have any gravy with it. Or cream," Peter added.

Micky looked down at his disturbingly empty plate, then up again at Davy, whose unsuspecting, concerned gaze suddenly made him feel like his blood was laced with chili powder.

_Davy didn't want girls. _

He swallowed. "Fine. I'm fine," he said again.

* * *

Davy brought it up again later, so Micky guessed he hadn't played it off so well at dinner. The ensuing food poisoning might have had something to do with that. Micky had a cast-iron stomach, but all too often Peter's cuisine had a worrying tendency toward the corrosive.

"It's just – if something's wrong, you know you can tell us, right? I mean," he added, sidetracked into conscientious honesty, "probably Mike's right, and we won't want to hear it, but…" He shook his head with vigor before returning to his original point, "I'm your friend, and you can tell me anything."

The thing was, Micky already _knew_ that. The problem was that _Davy_ didn't seem to. "Nothing's wrong," he said instead, because hey, if Davy wasn't going to take his own advice, well then, neither was he. See how Davy liked it.

Still, lying to Davy's face, which was an attractive face (made almost more so by the faint air of worry…concern really brought out the warm brown of his eyes) – was difficult. No wonder girls felt the compulsion to unburden all their life-woes. He tried evasion, just for the sake of comparison. "What does Mike say?"

"That you're working on some new fixation, but you'll tire yourself out soon enough."

He drew himself up. "Hey! Does he question my commitment and staying power?"

"No, he didn't have any _questions_ about that," Davy reassured him, mouth twitching. "_Statements_, I think you'd call them."

Micky made a face at him. "I don't get why he would think that." He looked around the floor of his and Mike's room, strewn with the remnants of experiments past, "…other than…all those times it might have been true. But that doesn't mean it's true this time!"

"All right," Davy said agreeably. "So something _is_ wrong." He leaned against the doorframe. "C'mon man, you can tell me."

Micky stared down at the floor again, where the component parts of what had once been an old camera mingled with those of a cassette recorder, waiting to be made into something else, something better. He frowned at them and asked, "What are you looking for in a girl?"

"Depends on what I've los" –

He shut down the familiar patter. "No – straight up. For real."

"For real?" Davy echoed. He looked at Micky for a moment, seeming to really think it through. "I dunno, really – I suppose, when it comes down to it…I'm looking for the same thing as everyone else."

"Right. Of course. And that would be…?" Micky pressed.

The barest of pauses. "You know – the real thing, the whole deal."

"You mean, you're waiting on happily ever after?"

"Yeah. I guess," Davy agreed. "Not so keen on 'The End,' but…" He shrugged, then grinned, lightening the mood, "Anyway, there's no law saying I can't enjoy myself while I'm waiting for tall, dark and handsome to show up."

The surprise was like a sudden jolt of static electricity. It made him jerk. "And what's _that_ supposed to mean?"

Davy frowned. "S'just a joke. Y'know, girls always say they want someone 'tall, dark and handsome'? Don't you have that over here?"

Micky persisted. "But that's what _you're_ looking for in a girl?"

"I told you – it's a joke. Still…I suppose it'd be nice to meet someone who could reach the top shelf…"

Micky scrabbled for his notebook. Sure, Davy said it was a joke, but who was to say that the subconscious didn't have a sense of humor?

"And _there's_ another thing – you're always writing in that diary now. Every time I turn around, you're scribbling in that thing," Davy trailed off before continuing in a different voice, "It's like you're keeping notes on" –

Micky's pen stilled.

He looked up, into Davy's thoughtful face (thoughtfulness was also a flattering look for him, drawing attention to the softness of his parted lips), and braced himself as Davy said, slowly, "That diary" –

"It's not a diary," he interrupted.

" – and the way you've been acting lately…and all that stuff in the bathroom the other day, asking me about…" he stopped, and Micky could see the exact moment that his eyes lit up with understanding, "Is this about some girl?"

It was good that Davy hadn't figured it out. It was hard enough managing an experiment without having to factor in the biases of the subject. Still, for some reason, Davy's conclusion made him feel something akin to annoyance. Not quite annoyance itself, but more like a distant relation – a third cousin, or something. "It's not about a girl," he said.

"Because if it is, I'd be happy to" –

"No," he said, maybe too loud, since it made Davy stare at him. "You don't have to. Because it's not about a girl. So I guess all that expertise of yours just – isn't going to be any use here."

He smiled so wide it made his jaw hurt, and stayed very still under the weight of Davy's gaze.

"All right. I suppose not," Davy said eventually, and turned away.

* * *

The big issue Micky had with HYPOTHESIS, was that it led so smoothly into –

**PREDICTION/INFERENCE.**

That wouldn't normally be a problem – except that in this case, the fact that Davy didn't want girls immediately invited the question – who _did_ Davy want?

Only it wasn't much of a question…since according to the whole girl-guy divide, if Davy didn't want _girls_, it stood to reason that he must want…

…guys.

_Davy wanted guys. _

The idea sat there in his mind, with an undeniability that was almost radioactive. He half-expected Marie Curie to show up with an electrometer to measure it. Sure, he couldn't say that the concept of Davy digging guys was one hundred percent airtight, since Micky'd never seen him with a guy (even though there _was_ that time he'd had Peter eating out of the palm of his hand), but there was something…_compelling_ in the idea. Like gravity…initially overlooked, but kind of obvious, in retrospect. He was on the right track – he just _knew it. _He had a – a _hunch, _the kind that hit with an apple-to-the-head kind of force, telling him so.

Which wasn't to say that Micky was going to abandon scientific objectivity. No. He had a theory – an attractive, persuasive, toe-curlingly _seductive_ theory…but Micky wasn't going to get into bed with it on the first date. He wasn't that kind of scientist.

Because the case regarding Davy's sexuality was still an open one. A hypothesis was just a hypothesis at the end of the day, and until he _proved _that Davy didn't want girls…or that he _did _want guys, Davy and his sexuality were stuck in a box, with only a cat (that might be alive or dead – the jury was still out on that one) for company.

Davy deserved better than that, and it was that - or at least, Micky told himself that it was that – that made him suddenly surge forward towards…

* * *

…**4) EXPERIMENTATION**

The way he saw it, this Davy thing was a two-parter, a double feature. Firstly, he had to put the whole 'girl' thing to bed, once and for all…not an easy task given the notebook he'd filled with details of Davy's reluctance to do just that…

And then, after that, there was the 'guy' issue. Which wasn't going to be a piece of cake either, since from the looks of things, Davy seemed to have booked a lifetime cruise down Denial.

Still, Micky was committed.

"You mean you oughta _be_ committed," Mike muttered, when Micky mentioned it. "Seriously man, can't you just drop it? You're worse than my old dog Fido – and he got lockjaw whenever we played Fetch."

But, much like Fido, Micky found that this was a stick that he just couldn't drop. Because…well – when you cut to the heart of it all...they were just four guys who'd stumbled on to a pretty good thing, and Micky didn't even mean the band. It took a special kind of _something _to stick with three other people through thick and thin (mostly thin). Micky wasn't a tree, so as a habit, he didn't produce sap, but – 'best friends' barely even scratched the surface of what this was.

But…here was Davy, holding back from them. Fronting, like whatever he was hiding could be worse than kidnapping, or mobsters, or a lifetime on the wrong side of the poverty line.

Well, it wasn't. It _couldn't _be. Man, they'd faced worse than this before breakfast. They'd faced worse than this _during _breakfast, if Peter was cooking. The point was, Davy didn't need to enact the same dumb, repetitive farce and expect them to keep swallowing it. It was unnecessary.

Even Peter agreed. Well. Kind of. "I guess, in comparison to tragedy and drama, you _could_ argue that comedic genres such as farce have been shortchanged historically – if not critically, then at least in the mind of the everyman," he said thoughtfully.

* * *

As was so often the case, **EXPERIMENTATION** required a girl. And not just any girl, but the kind of girl Davy didn't usually go for – the kind who wouldn't take no for an answer.

Micky spotted her outside the record store, ostensibly flicking through a magazine, but in actuality sizing up every guy that walked past with a merciless, long-lashed gaze.

He stopped dead in front of her, because she was _perfect. _"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she echoed, eyes raking dismissively over his form.

She even looked like the kind of chick Davy might go for (tiny and blonde and deceptively wholesome) – once you overlooked the fact that she was nothing like the kind of chick Davy tended to go for.

"You're blocking my light," she informed him, craning to see over his shoulder.

"Sorry," Micky said. "But – listen…I've got a favor to ask you."

"You're not really my type," she said. "But – just a hint? You should work on your presentation. That's really not the best way to lay yourself on the line."

"No, I didn't mean it like that. Just – what's your name?"

She pursed her lips before deciding to humor him. "Clarabel Jenkins."

"I'm Micky," he said. "Micky Dolenz" –

"You're still not my type," she said, ignoring his outstretched hand.

"No – I'm a musician, but right now, I'm working on this experiment. How would you like to donate your body to science?" He attempted his most winning smile.

"It's original. I'll give you that," she said – though the way her nose wrinkled indicated that she was only giving partial credit for this.

He ploughed ahead regardless. "See, I've got this friend, and I need a girl to date him. Well, pretend to date him, for the purposes of" –

"Science," Clarabel Jenkins finished. "Thanks, but no thanks. I've got better things to do than play Bride of Frankenstein."

"No – it's not like that. Davy's – a great guy. Really."

"Yeah. He's so great he needs to send his friend to beg strange girls for dates."

"You're not _that_ strange – and for your information, I have not yet _begun_ to beg," Micky told her. He shook his head. "Anyway – Davy doesn't need any of that stuff. Trust me, he's the whole package."

"Oh, I bet he is," Clarabel agreed. "Let me guess…it's just the _wrapping_ that's the problem." She pushed off from the wall, rolling up her magazine as she did so. "Listen, fun as it's been, I've really got better things to do than" –

"I'll pay you!" Micky said, as she brushed past. She stopped, abruptly seeming more interested. But before he had a chance to relax, her head tilted back and she demanded, suspiciously, "Oh yeah? And just _what_ are you gonna pay me?"

His reply was the only one a down-on-his-luck drummer could give. "My…respects?"

She drew herself up to her full height (which didn't take long), and said, "I can't believe you. You think I'd just up and date some guy I've never even met on your say so? Especially without any kind of remuneration for my time – like I got nothing else I could be doing? What kind of girl do you think I am?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but was spared the necessity of doing so when Davy poked his head out of the record store to say, "Micky – what's taking so long? Come on!"

"Just a second, Davy," he said. Clarabel's head whipped around just before he disappeared again. She blinked, then continued her tirade, "We are going to have to have a serious talk about that…"

She smiled sweetly, "…right after you introduce me to your friend."

* * *

Of course, it wasn't as simple as boy-meets-girl. It couldn't be. After all, if there was one thing Micky knew about Davy, it was that he was attracted (in the loosest possible sense of the word) to girls-with-problems. He was like a mobile Agony Aunt, dispensing solutions to all of life's little and not-so-little problems.

Accordingly, he and Clarabel cooked up an appropriate first meeting. When Micky and Davy came out of the record store, he nodded at her and right on cue, she turned and laid a hand on a passing guy's arm and said, "Can I ask you the time?"

The guy pushed up his glasses before looking down at his watch and telling her, "It's three thirty." He made to move away, but Clarabel gripped his arm tightly and said, in a loud voice, "How dare you!"

Like a moth to the flame, Davy's head jerked toward her, and from behind him, Micky gave Clarabel an encouraging thumbs up.

"Okay! Okay! Maybe it's closer to three twenty-seven!"

"Stop pestering me! Can't you take a hint? Just leave me alone!" Clarabel hung fast to his shirt as the man tried to break free.

"I would if you'd let me!" the guy said, now struggling in earnest.

Davy charged in, like any groovy knight errant would, marching forward and addressing them. "I think you need to listen to what this young lady's saying, here," he said, gesturing to Clarabel, who immediately let go of the guy's now fingernail-marked arm.

"All right! All right! With pleasure!" the guy said, taking a couple of graceless steps backwards.

Davy frowned as he watched the guy retreat. "Well…that was…easier than usual."

He was distracted by Clarabel throwing her arms around him. "Thank you!" she breathed, looking at Davy with wide, blue eyes. "You – you're my hero. How can I ever thank you?"

"That's all right," Davy said gallantly, though he did nothing to extricate himself from her embrace.

"Well, I insist," she said, clasping his palm between both of hers. "Clarabel Jenkins."

"Davy Jones." Davy left his hand in hers.

Things were, Micky considered, off to a good start.

* * *

Clarabel was skeptical when Micky unveiled the terms of the experiment. "You want me to date your friend…to prove that he doesn't want to date me?"

"To prove that he doesn't want to date _girls_," Micky explained, twisting around in his seat. Davy was still at the counter of the soda shop, paying for their drinks.

"By making him _date _a girl. Not that he needed all that much convincing…"

"You're not just any girl – you're my controlled variable," Micky told her.

She frowned. "Hey – you're no peach yourself!"

"You're going to allow me to measure Davy's reaction as accurately as possible – ultimately proving my hypothesis that you're not Davy's type."

She waved over Micky's shoulder, smile flashing across her face. "Oh believe me – I'm his type all right. I'm everyone's type."

"Exactly. That's what makes my experiment so conclusive."

She narrowed her eyes at him, and Micky was reminded of the rat he'd once trained – having spent hours building it a small car, and teaching it how to operate that, it had come as a shock to find that in the middle of the night, Nitro had loaded up the boot and backseat with edibles, and absconded without so much as a goodbye, or even an explanatory coded note. Clearly, Nitro had had an agenda of his own, right from the very beginning.

But Micky shook off the nagging feeling of déjà vu, because there was an experiment to plan.

* * *

"But I thought you said there _wasn't_ a girl," Davy said. He kept his gaze on the mirror as he brushed his hair.

"There wasn't, I mean, there isn't. See – _that's _the problem," Micky said, with sudden inspiration. "It's been so long since I've dated a girl that…I'm rusty! I creak whenever I try to ask a chick out – Pete'll tell you. Why, I can barely remember which end of a girl is up. Which is why I need _you _to show me!"

"If I go around showing you what part of the girl goes up, we're going to get arrested," Davy told him.

"Hey, we can start small. Why don't you just show me how you act with a girl on dates?"

Davy put down his comb. "Why me?"

"Well, you're the expert on girls, aren't you?" It was a feat of Galilean proportions, to say that without rolling his eyes or coughing, but in the (surprisingly prurient) interests of science, he managed it.

"Thought you said my expertise wasn't wanted." It was said lightly enough, but Micky thought he could detect the faintest aftertaste of hurt lingering in the air.

He hadn't meant to hurt Davy's feelings in all of this, and he tried to babble it better. "What? No. No, man – I, I always wanted it. I mean, I always wanted _you_. That is – your expertise. Maybe – maybe I was just afraid of how _much _I wanted it. You. The uh, the expertise, that is."

The words fell like ball bearings, scattering everywhere, refusing to coalesce into anything approaching coherence…but Davy didn't seem to notice anything odd. He just smiled and clapped Micky on the shoulder and said, simply, "All right."

Weirdly, this easy acceptance and unquestioning trust made him feel, if not exactly guilt, then something very closely akin to it. Maybe guilt's identical twin sister. He wondered if Pavlov had ever had second thoughts about ringing that bell.

"Davy" –

But when Davy turned toward him and their eyes met, the idea of not_ knowing – never _knowing_, _needled him, made something catch in his chest.

"Yeah?" Davy asked. "What is it?"

Micky shook his head. "Nothing," he said.


	3. Chapter 3

Clarabel was less than enthused at his presence on their first date.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed at him, speaking behind her hand.

"How else am I supposed to get Dav – I mean, data?"

"I don't know – from a _distance, _maybe?"

"Yeah…but Davy's so short, you blink and you miss him." Micky demonstrated this, blinking in the direction of the concession stand, where Davy had been purchasing confectionary. "Hey – where'd he go?" She remained stone-faced. "I'm just saying – I have to get up close and personal, or I'm never going to get anything good. Plus spying really strains the ocular nerves, and besides, it's Pete's week to have the binoculars."

Clarabel opened her mouth to retort, but hastily pasted a smile on her face as Davy returned. "Anyone for some Predic-a-mints?" he asked, rattling the little box.

"No thanks – I got one of those already," she muttered, before she threaded her arm through Davy's and towed him into the theater, ignoring Micky completely. When he finally located them and squeezed into the empty seat on Davy's other side (accidentally causing a small rain of popcorn in the process), he could see her jaw clench by the flickering light of the movie.

Still, it turned out to be an informative evening. While Clarabel took frequent breaks from staring at the big screen to cast glances to her left, Davy didn't. Or at least, not with the same frequency. And even though he _did_ whisper something to her, moments later, he turned and spoke into Micky's ear, voice warm and low. "Is this what you had in mind?"

It took Micky a minute to understand what Davy meant. "Oh – yeah. Yeah, I am…really starting to dig this typical date behavior."

"Good. That's good."

Heartened, Micky began to embellish. "Yeah, it's all coming back to me now – Saturday night at the movies…hugging with your baby in the back row of the balcony…hands meeting in the popcorn" –

He started as just then, Davy's fingers brushed against his inside the popcorn bucket. It was only a fleeting instant, but it made enough of an impression to make Micky seriously consider a battery of tests designed to examine whether Davy's hands (or any other parts) actually conducted electricity.

"…a couple more of these, and I'll probably be ready to jump right back into the dating scene again," he finished.

He kept sneaking glances to his right during the movie. The light from the screen flashed over Davy's face, making him seem different to Micky's eyes. It was strange, to look at someone he knew so well, and then feel that twist of unfamiliarity, like Davy was part-stranger to him. It made his heart skitter oddly in his chest.

"What did you think?" Davy asked him afterwards.

"Great. Great! Fun for all the family…" Micky said. He hoped that there weren't going to be any more in-depth questions about the movie he'd completely forgotten to watch. He still had trouble tearing his eyes away from Davy, who seemed somehow to have retained some of that shadowy, silver-screen mystery, even here in the well-lit foyer of the theater.

"…I uh…I liked it," he finished – and he found that he meant every word…though he really didn't know _what _precisely he meant.

* * *

Clarabel was no more understanding on their second date.

"Davy, baby – listen…you've heard that saying, 'two's company, but three's a crowd, right?'" she said.

He pulled her aside. Micky followed. "I know," he said, "But…Micky's been having a really rough time lately – and I just want to help."

Micky put a hand over his chest, touched, even as Davy muttered, "Buzz off!" and reached behind without looking, attempting to push him away to maintain some illusion of privacy.

"That's…sweet," Clarabel said, though the way her lips twisted as she made eye contact with Micky made it seem like the words left a sour aftertaste.

"So you don't mind if he hangs around with us for a while, right?" The beseeching expression on Davy's face was hard to deny. Not impossible, of course –

"Of course I mind!"

– but still, very hard.

"…but I guess I can pretend for a little longer."

"Wow – that's a neat coincidence, because so can Davy!" Micky said brightly. A muscle in Clarabel's cheek jumped. "So, are we going to ride the Tunnel of Love or not?"

* * *

By the sixth date (a romantic walk on the beach), Clarabel couldn't pretend any longer, and while Davy was distracted by some surfers, she pulled Micky behind a sand dune, and stated through gritted teeth, "This just isn't working."

"I knew it!" Micky said. "And I don't blame you for being steamed about it. I mean, how long has it been? You've been coming on strong, and you two are still stuck on kissing on the doorstep."

Clarabel did not seem as enthused as Micky was by her declaration. "Maybe that's because you're always standing right next to us!"

Micky frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that there might be a whole lot more to observe, if you weren't _watching _us all the time!"

"But if I don't watch, how will I know what happens? Or, more likely, going by the evidence so far – what doesn't happen. Anyway, it's Mike's week to have the binoculars."

"You could leave, and I could just _tell_ you what happens."

"No! That's – not, no. It wouldn't work." Micky shook his head with kneejerk rapidity.

"Why not?!" Clarabel ran both hands through her hair.

"Because…you need an impartial observer." He gestured toward himself. "You know, sidestep any 'confirmation bias'. See – that means that people only see what they want to see when it comes to certain situations. It's a scientific concept – maybe you haven't heard of it."

"No, no, I think I'm real familiar with that one, actually," Clarabel said. She put her hands on her hips. "But – you wanna know what I think? You asked me to get close to Davy, but every time I try, _you _keep pushing your way between us. I think that bird-brain of yours has come up with some dumb theory, and now you're stacking the deck in your favor, to prove yourself right."

"Hey – are you questioning my rigor?"

"I don't see what that's got to do with anything, but since you brought it up, you _did_ have to stop rowing in the middle of the lake when we all went on that romantic boat ride." She cocked her head to the side. "You know, you never did tell me why you wanted to do this thing in the first place."

"Scientific curios" – Micky found he couldn't finish the rest of that sentence. Partly because it didn't feel entirely true, and partly because Clarabel had her arm over his windpipe.

"You _ask me_ to seduce your friend – and then you make sure that I _can't_ do that. From where I'm standing, I'm not the one who's biased, here."

"Yeah, well…sure, you _could_ blame me, you _could_ say it was all my fault, you _could _take all your frustrations out on me" – Micky made frantic gestures with his hands as the arm over his windpipe returned –

" – _but_," he managed to wheeze. The arm retreated. "– maybe you need to start looking at this in another way."

"And what way is that?"

"It's been six dates now, and from where I'm standing, it doesn't exactly look like Davy's dying to get you alone. He hasn't tried all that hard – or even at all, if you think about it…"

It was true. Davy didn't seem all that bothered to have a permanent third wheel attached to his relationship with Clarabel. And since Clarabel was deploying tactics like batted eyelashes, lip-licking and hair-twirling, like a seasoned (though slightly strange) general, Davy's reluctance couldn't be put down to good old-fashioned English courtesy, or even good old-fashioned English cluelessness. No – this one was all down to good old-fashioned English disinterest.

Going by the look on her face, Clarabel must have been thinking along the same lines, though all she said as she backed away was, "Well, sometimes…sometimes if you want a guy to take the next step, you just gotta – push him down the stairs."

It was a very silent romantic walk when they emerged from behind the sand dune, and it ended the same way every date ended – with Micky standing behind Clarabel as she and Davy engaged in yet another of those soft, going-nowhere-slow kisses.

Still, in the interests of fairness, when he and Davy made their own way home, he found himself lingering by the doorstep, and asking, "Hey, Davy – you uh, you don't mind me tagging along on your dates with Clarabel, right?"

"What? No. No, of course not. I mean…if you think it's helping…"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Micky assured him. He paused, shifting from foot to foot. "Just…maybe Clarabel doesn't feel exactly the same way you do about it."

"Why? Did she say something to you?"

"It's more of a feeling I got," Micky said. That wasn't a lie – he could still feel a ghostly pressure against his larynx.

"Oh. Well…it's probably not really her scene. I mean, she's a very shy and retiring type of girl, you know."

Micky blinked. Suddenly he wished he had some cards in his hands, because it would have made it easier to practice his poker face.

"But…she understands that – you're my friend, and friends come first," Davy said. The outdoor light shone, enveloping them in a weakly illuminated circle. With everything else in darkness, it felt to Micky like they were the only people in the world.

"Actually…" Davy said, and maybe he felt the same way, because why else would his voice be so low? He shuffled his feet, "…the movies, the walks on the beach, the boat ride, the bicycle built for three…to tell you the truth, it's been…kinda nice, spending so much time together."

"Yeah – it's been a blast. A real vivre de joie. A regular barrel of laughs," Micky agreed. He found his voice dipping into the same soft register as he finished with, "It _has_ been…sorta fun."

They smiled at each other, and the moment stretched out, bathed in the meager glow of the outdoor light.

"Hey, I guess…we should probably…" Micky said, eventually. He indicated the door to the Pad with a jerk of his thumb.

"Oh. Oh, yeah. Of course," Davy said. For a moment, neither of them moved – and then, one of Davy's hands came up, landing just above Micky's hip, while the other hand settled against his neck.

Micky had just enough time to think that he _definitely _needed to more fully explore the whole Davy's-hands-as-electrical-conductors idea, before Davy was leaning upwards. Micky's heart thumped once, hard, before abruptly…

…a sense of absolute calm washed over him.

The strangest thing about this feeling was how familiar it was. It was the same sensation he got when he looked down at a random assembly of cogs and gears, and _knew_ that he could make them fit together somehow – and all his focus, every twitch and jitter, was poured into making that happen, with a kind of single-mindedness he wasn't usually capable of.

It was instinctive. His fingertips tingled in anticipation, and with that same kind of concentration, Micky tilted downwards, waiting to see how this thing worked, just waiting for Davy to finally…

…_finally…_

…pull away.

Davy stepped back, blinking. He made a noise that sounded like a confused impersonation of both a cough and a laugh and said, "Sorry. I didn't mean to…it's funny – I guess we've been spending so much time together…well, I suppose it started to feel like…like I was dating _you _just then."

Davy shook his head and raked a hand through his hair. Micky laughed, but it had a funny ring to it, like it came out in the wrong key. "Yeah. That – that is…funny. A real snip-roaring, snee-klapper. A klee-roaring snip-snapper. I mean," he said, enunciating very carefully, "–it's a rip-roaring knee-slapper." He grinned so wide it made his cheeks hurt, just to show willing, but even though Davy flashed a kind of smile in his direction, he never made eye-contact as he opened the door and went inside.

Micky didn't follow right away. Instead, he stayed outside for a while and replayed what had just happened – how he and Davy had ended up standing so close their shoes were touching, the pressure of Davy's hand against his waist, how Davy had leaned in…and, well, _up, _and almost…

And, underneath the weak outdoor light, something slowly became clear to him.

"You're home kind of early. How did the date go?" Mike asked, when he finally made his way upstairs.

"Good," Micky decided. "I think we're really on the brink of something."

"You mean you three have decided to get serious? Call me old-fashioned, but I'm not sure I want to know how _that's_ going to work," Mike mused.

"No – Clarabel's history. Well, almost. At the moment, she's more of a current event, but any day now, and she's gonna be history."

"He seems happy enough to me. How can you be so sure he's gonna break up with her?"

"Easy – Davy's either gotta initiate something within a specific timeframe," Micky looked at his watch, "or he's gotta let it go. You know, dating's a lot like the Statute of Limitations – and Davy's time is almost up."

"Well, that's great news. First you orchestrated it so that Davy would go out with this girl, and now, thanks to your machinations, he's going to break up with her." Mike paused. "Don'tcha think that this was a roundabout way of making sure you ended up back at square one?"

"I prefer to think of it as 'taking the scenic route'. And no," Micky said. "Because now, it's time for stage two."

"Oh, now _that_ I definitely don't want to" –

"Of course, the problem with that is – I'm going to have to get more involved…" Micky said.

" – know," Mike finished. "I definitely don't want to know." He paused for a moment before closing his eyes, sighing and charging back into the fray. "_More_ involved? You just masterminded his get-together with this girl. And now, his breakup with her. How could you even _get _more involved?"

"See – I've proved the initial part of my hypothesis – _Davy doesn't want girls,_" Micky said. He pulled his notebook out from under his pillow, opened it at a random page and brandished it in Mike's direction.

Mike squinted, and turned his head to the side. "You know, if you look at it a certain way, your hypothesis kinda looks like plaid."

"So now, I've just got to explore the second part of my hypothesis, the – _if Davy doesn't want girls, then he must want guys _part."

Mike sat bolt upright in his bed. His pom pom quivered. "Right. So, when you say you need to get more involved, you mean" –

"I might have to have to throw myself on Davy's sword. In the interests of science, obviously."

"I was right," Mike said, mostly to himself. "I really _didn't_ want to know."

"I mean, it does create something like" –

" – an enormous humdinger of a problem…" Mike finished, but Micky ignored him, " – a minor conflict of interest, since I'm the one conducting the experiment. Minor. Tiny. Microscopic." He held his thumb and index finger an infinitesimal distance apart in demonstration. "But hey – it's not like it's the first time this kind of thing has happened. Since the dawn of time, scientists been drawn into their own experiments. It sure didn't do Benjamin Franklin any harm."

"Yeah, well, maybe that's because he only tied a _key_ onto his kite, not a whole other person."

Only half-listening, Micky found himself doubling back to the way Davy's fingers had brushed against his neck, before flicking the memory away as irrelevant. "I'm pretty sure I can remain objective," he said, with a nod.

"You know, I think it might be better for everyone if you dropped this thing and focused on something else for a while," Mike said, "Listen, there's this new club opening up downtown – the _Flybynight. _Maybe you should come down there with me one of these days, see if we can't wrangle a gig or two."

"Sure. Sounds good. Once it doesn't, you know, clash with any plans I might potentially have with Davy."

It took a minute for Mike to find the right words. His disapproval was like a heavy, dark cloud – it made Micky twitch in anticipation of a rain of censure. Eventually, Mike said, "Don't you think pretending to-to _date_ Davy takes this thing a little too far? I mean – I don't feel like it's fair to Davy, and it's not exactly doing _you_ any favors, either."

The memory of Davy's fingers returned, warm and slightly ticklish. Micky shook his head to chase the spectral feeling away. "It's a sacrifice I'm prepared to make."

"Mick, believe me – this is going to end badly," Mike told him. "It's got disaster written all over it."

"Pshaw – that's just your confirmation bias speaking," Micky said, waving a hand dismissively. "I've got this entire situation completely under control."

"Sure you do," Mike said. He sighed. "You know, I think that's what Ben Franklin said right before he got electrocuted."


	4. Chapter 4

The funny thing was, Mike was right – but if Micky had let **EXPERIMENTATION** play out more naturally…if he'd just waited until Clarabel was completely out of the picture, everything might have worked out okay.

It was impatience, pure and simple, that tripped him up. The same way it always did whenever he had a shiny new project on the horizon. He could see in his mind's eye how things were going to play out – having to hang around and wait for it to _actually_ _happen_…well, that part always made him feel like his hands were tied behind his back, and his feet had been nailed to the floor.

Patience was a virtue, sure – but Micky'd been at the back of the line when they were handing it out…so he'd probably gotten bored and wandered off long before he reached the head of the queue.

The point was, he'd already mentally written off the whole Clarabel part of the experiment – and he was more than ready to dig in and begin some deep excavation on part two of his hypothesis.

So…that's exactly what he did.

The problem was, Clarabel wasn't ready to be written off yet, and maybe it wasn't the smartest move he'd ever made, launching right into Phase Two right under her nose.

They were sitting in _The Lunch Wagon_ diner, when the waitress came over to take their order. Clarabel said, "One sundae. Two straws," then smiled triumphantly at Micky, like sharing a dairy-based dessert was proof of eternal love or something. Please. Missy-Lou Blumenthal (of _Blumenthal's Supreme Soft Serve and Sorbet Emporium_) had offered Davy a lifetime supply of milk-and-cream based frozen treats…but it hadn't made any difference. In the end, she'd melted away, just like every other girl had.

Just like every other girl _would_.

"Hang on a minute," Davy said to the waitress before she vanished. He turned to Micky. "D'you want anything?"

Micky shook his head, then looked down at the table, where Davy's fingers tangled with Clarabel's. "Yeah, actually."

Clarabel sighed loudly. "I'll call her back." She twisted around in the seat.

"The hand-holding."

She twisted right back.

Micky smiled. "It's a nice touch! Hey, I love it. Really – convincing." He caught Clarabel's eye, but quickly moved onto Davy. "I'm just wondering…if it was me – I don't know…when do you think I should pull a move like that?"

Davy blinked. He darted a quick look at Clarabel before turning his eyes on Micky. "You mean…if you wanted to hold someone's hand…" he stopped. "Are you asking me _how_ you'd do that?"

"Yeah. I'm just looking for some basic pointers, tips, suggestions. I mean, how do I work up to it? When do I start warming up," he flexed his fingers in demonstration, "– and then, when I make my move?"

"I dunno," Davy said. "When it feels right, you just – do it and…that's it."

"Well, yeah, but – when? As soon as we sit down? Or do I give it a couple of minutes? Maybe I oughta say something first – you know, 'Keep your hands where I can see 'em'…or something like that" –

"Believe me, the less _you_ say, the better," Clarabel muttered.

"I think you might be thinking about it too much," Davy said with a frown. "It doesn't have to be that complicated. Look – if you want to hold someone's hand, all you have to do is reach out" – he did so himself, "– and…hold their hand."

His fingers slid against Micky's, warm and firm. It was the outcome he'd expected, the very outcome he'd nudged Davy toward with his talk of handholding, and his purposeful cluelessness. But, now that it had happened, all Micky could do was stare at his and Davy's hands, parts from two entirely different machines, yet somehow – connected, compatible.

He swallowed. "Just – like that, huh?"

"Just like that," Davy echoed. There was a kind of carefulness in the way he was holding himself, that suggested that he was feeling the same startlement as Micky. But he didn't move back, and he didn't pull his hand away. As a matter of fact, as he held Micky's gaze, intent and almost frowning, his thumb absently stroked against the back of Micky's hand.

It made a new sensation judder down Micky's spine. Even though this made his heart kick into a familiar flight-or-who-was-he-kidding-even-faster-flight response, it wasn't – unpleasant. He could feel his lips parting, ready to say…something, he guessed, whenever he caught his breath…

But then, Clarabel's voice interrupted, shattering the moment. "Davy, baby, I think he's got the idea now." Her gaze never moved from their joined hands.

Davy started, turning toward her, then back toward Micky. "Yeah. Sorry," he said. Micky wasn't quite sure who he was talking to. He shook his head. "Sorry about that – I just" –

He slid his hand back along the table, but without thinking, Micky reached out and covered Davy's hand with his, preventing further retreat.

Davy stared at him, and there was a moment where his mind went blank and it felt like the world was tilting, before instinct kicked in, and he felt a smile stretch across his face. "Sure, I think I've got the, uh, the general gist," he said. The words came out readily enough, though it was like he was listening to someone else speak, "But see, I get the feeling there's a lot of nuances I'm just not picking up on yet."

"Like _that's_ anything new," Clarabel muttered, but Micky hardly heard her over the rushing in his ears…because Davy hadn't moved. He looked indecisive, and Micky could feel tension in the hand under his – but he didn't pull away any further.

"_I'm_ a girl," Clarabel said suddenly, loudly. They both looked at her. "So, if Micky wants to hold hands with one, he should hold hands with me."

"Y'know, she has a p" – Davy began.

"Well, see, I'm trying to work out the feminine perspective on this whole thing," Micky said. He focused on the feeling of Davy's knuckles against his palm.

"I s'pose that's an int" – Davy began.

"I'm a girl," she repeated, with a challenging tilt of her head. "You can't get more feminine than that."

"You have to admit, that's tr" – Davy began.

Micky interrupted, "I guess, what I'm trying to say, is…I'm trying to put myself in your position."

Clarabel laughed, a thin, sharp sound. "Oh, believe me, I got that."

"Look – why don't we all just" – Davy began.

"Davy's right," Micky said. He reached out with his other hand, and grabbed hold of Clarabel's hand. "We should _all_ just hold hands. Now everyone's happy." Of course, this was patently untrue, as Micky could feel Clarabel's dislike – quite literally, as she was crushing his fingers, squeezing them hard between her own. Man, was it any wonder he hadn't wanted to hold hands with her?

"Well, that wasn't quite what I had in mind," Davy said, glancing between them, "But I suppose, if everyone's happy…"

Clarabel smiled at him, and Micky tried not to wince as she dug her nails into his skin.

Someone else who wasn't happy was the waitress, who deposited the sundae between Davy and Clarabel with a clatter and said, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to refrain from that kind of behavior while in our establishment. _The Lunch Wagon _prides itself on being a family establishment, and as such, deviant activities are not encouraged."

"Deviant activities?" Davy echoed. He quickly withdrew his hands from Micky and Clarabel, placing them in his lap before smiling up at her, "Oh no, you've got the wrong idea here, miss."

"I know exactly what this is," the waitress said, unmoved. "And we got rules against that kind of thing here – look, here, all laid out in black and white." She tapped the back of their menu. Micky squinted down at it.

"This says 'no séances,'" he said. It did, in bold italic script, right under the dessert options.

"Exactly. Past experience has taught us here at _The Lunch Wagon _that the sight of freshly raised dead people really puts a crimp in customer appetite. So if you wanna stay, you must agree to refrain from any and all supernatural shenanigans."

They did.

But mid-sundae, after Clarabel dispatched Davy to get some more napkins, she leaned back in her seat, and said, "I guess I don't need to ask how the experiment is going."

For some reason, Micky remembered the feeling of Davy's fingers curled against his, the unconscious brush of his thumb against the back of Micky's hand. He almost didn't want to answer her, but she sat there, eyebrows raised and arms folded, like she was daring him. "I think it's going pretty well, actually. How about you?"

"You know…it's a lot of trouble to go to," she said, ignoring his question. "When you consider that it coulda all backfired on you." She stopped. "When it could _still_ backfire on you."

"Well, you know what they say – you can't conduct an experiment without breaking some beakers. Spilling some acid. Setting some small fires…" he paused. "Man, I've got to stop using Peter as my lab assistant."

She said, "You're real invested in this thing, huh? I hope you think it's worth it in the end." She wasn't smiling.

"I wouldn't be doing it if I didn't think it was going to be worth it," Micky countered, then had to add, "…unless I was really bored."

"Well, in that case, maybe I should hope _Davy _thinks it's worth it."

His mouth was dry. "Why? Are you planning on telling him?"

She just stared at him for a long, calculating moment, before she said, "Me? No. I'm not gonna tell him. And I guess…you're not gonna drop the bombshell either. Though…maybe you should. In the interests of fairness. See who Davy picks then. When he knows the whole truth."

Before he could parse the look on her face, Davy appeared with a handful of napkins, and suddenly her demeanor softened quicker than the ice-cream sundae.

"Everything all right?" he asked, as he slid back into his seat. His gaze skated between them both. "What's got the two of you looking so serious?"

"Nothing to worry about," Clarabel said, tucking her hand through his arm. Her eyes were like headlamps – Micky had to fight the urge to squint when she stared across the table at him. "Just a little friendly conversation."

* * *

The thing was, despite her valuable role in proving part one of the Davy hypothesis, Clarabel had been difficult from the word go. Or the word "Hey," if you wanted to be technically accurate. Micky guessed he should have foreseen this – after all, she _was_ the kind of girl who didn't take _no _for an answer.

And while Micky had given ample consideration to that particular personality trait of Clarabel's in relation to _Davy, _he really hadn't considered how 'not taking no for an answer' was going to impact on _himself_.

Normally, it wouldn't have been so much of a problem, but now he had to factor in the additional issue of Davy, and phase two.

That night, he spent some quality time with the neglected camera and cassette recorder parts still strewn across his and Mike's bedroom floor. He sat cross-legged, surrounded by a circle of components and tried to figure out where to start…more than a little hampered by the fact that he wasn't sure where he was going to _finish_.

He'd been at it for a while, picking pieces up at random and considering them, only to discard them seconds later, when he became aware of being looked at. He glanced up, to see Davy standing in the doorway, arms folded, watching him.

His heart gave a jump. "Hey," he said. "How, uh, how long have you been waiting there?"

Davy didn't exactly answer that. "I didn't want to disturb you." He crossed the floor and sat down next to Micky. Their arms brushed. Micky didn't know why he noticed that. It wasn't like it was an unusual occurrence. "This the latest project then?"

He nodded at the pieces scattered around them, but Micky found himself looking at Davy as he said, "Yeah."

Davy picked up a piece, frowning down at it and idly passing it from hand to hand. "So what's it going to be? I mean – when you're done with it."

"I don't know yet." He studied the way Davy's hair fell into his face.

Suddenly Davy glanced up and smiled at him. "You'll figure it out." Then he went back to toying with the dismantled tape deck. There was a brief silence before he cleared his throat. "Y'know – I've been thinking and – this whole thing, following me and Clarabel around on dates…well, it's probably time to call it quits, yeah? I mean, you've probably seen everything there is to see, anyway."

Denial was swift and instinctive – Micky shook his head, and said, "But I haven't seen anything yet!"

"You've seen enough," Davy said, quietly, but firmly. He paused. "To be honest…I'm starting to feel like I'm leading you on" –

Micky felt himself jerk, like he'd been electro-shocked, but Davy just continued, " – because…there really isn't some big secret to it."

"There isn't?" Micky said, though more because Davy was looking at him expectantly, than because he was truly following this discussion. In his defence, it was hard to concentrate with Davy sitting right next to him and saying things like "_leading you on_," and looking at him expectantly.

"No," Davy said, with a shake of his head. "There isn't. When you meet someone, and you like them, then…it's like today, holding hands. You just have to work up your nerve and – go for it."

"Work up your nerve, and go for it," Micky repeated. Davy smiled an encouraging smile – and slowly, inexorably, Micky felt his hand creeping over the floor, toward Davy's hand. He tried to fight it, but it was like his fingers were heavy iron and Davy was magnetic north – exerting a pull that couldn't be denied. He swallowed as his palm settled on top of Davy's.

Davy blinked.

"Gear idler!" Micky said suddenly, "The – you have the gear idler."

"Oh," Davy said. "Yeah, I – sorry, forgot I was holding that." Micky's fingers brushed against Davy's palm as he collected the part, and Davy's eyes snapped to his, soft and startled. He found his fingers lingering above Davy's, while his gaze slid down to Davy's lips, which were slightly parted.

_You just have to work up your nerve, and go for it._

"Thanks!" he said. The word seemed to bounce off the walls in the hush. "For the – gear idler." He held it up in demonstration.

"Good," Davy said. "That's – um, that's good." He got to his feet, but hesitated at the door. "I meant it, you know. There really isn't anything you need me to show you. So…you should think about that."

Micky stared up at him.

_You just gotta work up your nerve, and go for it. _

"I will," he said.

* * *

Still, in spite of Clarabel's continued awkwardness, and Davy's sudden strangeness, if it hadn't been for Mike's unexpected interference, things might have worked out the way they were supposed to.

But Mike had decided that he needed to step in. More than that, he'd decided that Micky needed to step _back_.

"I'm going down to the _Flybynight _today, and I think you oughta come with me," he said the next morning, without preamble.

"Aw, gee, I'd love to, Mike, but I think Davy and Clarabel and I have plans."

Mike gave him an even look that still managed to make Micky's ears itch. "You know, I thought Davy mighta said something to you about that last night. Something about – giving you false expectations and you needing to branch out on your own…?" he hinted.

"You knew about that? I can't believe he talked to you about talking to me before he talked to me!" A thought crossed his mind. "Hey, waitaminute – did you put him up to that?"

"No," Mike said, definitely enough that Micky didn't want to push it. "But I gotta say – I agree with him. This experiment's gone far enough in my opinion. It's time to call it a day."

"But, Mike – you don't understand! I'm so _close_!" Micky argued.

"Too close for comfort if you ask me. You get any closer and I've got a feeling the whole thing'll just blow up in our faces."

"But then how am I supposed to find out any of this stuff?"

"I don't know. Maybe if you want to know something about Davy, you could just _ask_ him," Mike said.

"Ask Davy?" Micky stared at him. "_Ask _Davy? You think _that's _going to work? 'Hey, Davy,'" he mimicked, "'pass the sugar, would'ja, and by the way, have you ever considered the idea that all those short-lived relationships with girls might just be a self-serving smokescreen to cover up your true desires?' It doesn't exactly roll off the tongue."

"That is kind of a mouthful," Mike acknowledged. "Maybe we could work on whittling that down a little. But right now, I really _do_ need someone to come to the club with me."

"Can't you bring Peter?"

"Well – you know that saying…you can't book a gig without knocking over some stools, breaking some glasses, and inadvertently insulting the club owner?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Actually, it turns out you can't book a gig if you _do _any of those things. So I think it's best if Pete stays home for this one. Just until we _have_ the audition."

Micky considered it.

"C'mon man – it couldn't hurt to take one or two steps back from the situation. Get a little perspective, at least."

Thinking back to last night, to the charged moment when he'd felt an unsettlingly powerful desire to reach out and touch Davy's…

…gear idler…

…Micky guessed the lines _might_ have started to blur a little. Like an Impressionist painting. "All right," he agreed.

Still, taking a couple of steps back didn't have to mean writing off the _whole_ project – did it? A couple of hours to resolve Mike's unfounded fears, and to clear his own head, and Micky'd be ready to resume work on part two of the Davy Hypothesis, as objective as he'd ever been.

With that in mind, he cornered Peter and charged him with shadowing Davy and Clarabel. Their conversation over yesterday's sundae had left Micky with the decided impression that it would not be wise to leave her and Davy alone together.

Peter was initially reluctant. "I don't think Mike'd like it."

"I never said Mike had to _like _it," Micky told him.

Peter considered this. "Well, I guess that's okay then."

Not that it mattered ultimately, because when he and Mike trooped back to the Pad (having badgered the _Flybynight's _manager into letting them audition in a couple of days time), it was to discover that Peter had been locked in the closet and there was no sign of either Davy or Clarabel.

"'Sometimes, if you want a guy to take the next step, you just gotta – push him down the stairs'," Micky said to himself, as Mike helped Peter onto the couch.

"Then what happened Pete?" Mike asked him.

"Well…then, after she pushed me down the stairs and locked me in the closet, she waited until Davy came out of the bathroom, and she said they needed to go someplace private."

"She didn't gag you," Mike said. "Why didn't you call for help?"

Peter frowned. "She asked me not to."

Mike turned to Micky and shook his head. "Boy, Mick, you sure can pick 'em."

"Hey – don't look at me, she's just a catalyst."

"Well, whatever she is, we've got to draw the line right here. I mean, sure, Peter's used to being locked up in small spaces, but that doesn't mean it's right." He trained a significant glance on Micky, "We'd better start thinking about what we're gonna say to Davy."

But when Davy appeared some time later, he was in such an abstracted, thoughtful mood that it wasn't easy to bring up the subject of Clarabel. Even the news of their audition was greeted with a much more subdued reaction than usual.

"That's great," he said. And, eventually, when he intercepted one of the nonplussed looks flying over his head, "We'll uh – we'll really knock their socks off at this um – _Flies at Night_. Tell you what – we should tell them we play without safety netting – that'll impress them." He lapsed into silence again, and more looks were exchanged between Mike, Micky and Peter.

"Is something wrong?" Mike asked carefully.

"Wrong?" Davy repeated. "What would be wrong?"

"I don't know, but you've been awfully quiet since you came back from your date with Clarabel. Did something happen?"

"No. Nothing happened." Davy shook his head.

The feeling of knee-loosening relief at this was so strong, Micky couldn't help himself from cracking, "Nothing happened? Sure seems like everything's normal to me."

Mike frowned at Micky. "It's just, if something happened – with Clarabel…you know you could tell us, right?"

Davy looked straight at him. "Nothing happened. Clarabel's…Clarabel's a great girl."

There was a chewy kind of silence, like everyone was wrestling with a particularly tough bit of gristle.

"My mother always says 'If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all,'" Peter finally volunteered.

Mike seized on this. "Well, in that case, taking Peter's mom's advice on board, I guess I'd have to say that Clarabel is…" he shut his mouth with an audible snap and tapped his nose.

"Hmm?" Davy asked, vaguely. "Did you say something, Mike?"

"_No_," Mike said, very definitely. He raised his eyebrows.

"You're right," Davy said. "She _is_ a great girl. I'll tell her you think so, tomorrow. She'd like to hear that."

Mike blinked. "You're, uh, you're seeing her tomorrow? Again?"

"Of course," Davy said. "I've got to."

He spoke with a quiet but unshakeable determination.

"That's…that's…well" – Mike exchanged helpless glances with Peter as Davy drifted away toward his bedroom.

As the door shut behind him, Mike sighed and said, "Man, last time we saw him like that, we had that Fern to deal with – but now I get the feeling we might have a full blown case of poison ivy on our hands."

"Don't worry about it," Micky said, patting Mike's shoulder. He pushed his way past Peter. "I'll take care of this."

Davy was sitting on his bed. He looked up as Micky eased into the bedroom.

"Hey," he said, "That's great – you and Clarabel. Sounds like you two are really – hitting it off." The words were hard to get his mouth around. Davy didn't say anything in response, and Micky rushed ahead. "So…listen – I know you said about calling things quits, but," he smiled his widest, most disarming smile, "I was thinking that maybe I could just tag along tomorrow and" -

"No," Davy said. It was quietly said, but it rang with finality. He smiled a very little, as if to soften the refusal. "It's just – there are some things you have to do alone, you know?"

Micky really hoped he didn't.

Davy shook his head, "Anyway" – he let out a faded kind of laugh, "it's like I said. You've got nothing to learn from me. Really."

Micky looked at him, not sure what to say. "Davy…do you – are you, uh – is everything" –

While words buzzed like a hive full of bees behind his teeth, he just knew he was going to say the wrong ones, so he clamped his lips shut.

After a few moments, Davy said, "You ever feel like" – his eyes met Micky's, then glanced away. "…I dunno…"

The word-bees stung, but Micky held it together, because this time, he wasn't going to just jump in and say the first thing that popped into his head (usually an offer to evaluate his best/worst Cagney impression)– no. He was going to actually _consider _his words for a change, and maybe end up saying the _right _thing for once.

His hesitation ended up costing him though, because in the end Davy just smiled at him a little, and said, "S'alright. Don't worry about it."

* * *

But the next day, meeting Clarabel at the door and squiring her down to the beach, Davy seemed in better spirits. As did Mike, when he realised that Micky wasn't going to follow them.

"You did tell me I needed to take a step back," he said. "That was some really good advice by the way – I appreciate it. Thanks!"

"Well, I'm glad you've started to look at it that way," Mike said approvingly. "And I think you'll come to see that…" He abruptly deflated. "You know, it really doesn't count as taking a step back from the situation when you've got a pair of binoculars in your hands."

"But it's my week to have them!" Micky protested. With a sigh, Mike pulled the binoculars out of his hands and said, "All right. That's it – _we_ are going out."

"Where?" Peter asked, as Mike hustled them through the door. He grabbed hold of Micky's elbow as he attempted to turn toward the beach and hauled him in the opposite direction.

"Somewhere we won't be tempted to spy on Davy."

Later, safely tucked inside a booth in _The Lunch Wagon, _Mike said, "All right. We all need to look at this Davy-situation logically."

"Can't we look at it through high powered lenses instead?" Micky asked him. His fingers twitched as if they were still holding the binoculars.

Mike ignored him. Peter sipped his milkshake. "Now I know none of us like Clarabel very much, but I've been thinking – and I think we oughta let Davy figure this thing out on his own. Remember Fern Badderley? The last thing we want to do is create an us-and-them type of situation. We don't need Davy and Clarabel thinking they're Romeo and Juliet."

"Gee, Mike – Clarabel doesn't really seem like the Juliet-type," Peter said.

"All right then…we don't want this turning into a Romeo and Lady Macbeth kind of situation. I have faith in Davy. He's" – Mike stopped, before forcing himself to say, almost convincingly, "…he's not gonna let this get out of hand."

Micky had faith in Davy too – after all, he had an entire notebook dedicated to Davy's commitment to – well, _lack_ of commitment.

It was _Clarabel _Micky didn't trust.

Still, everything seemed fine when they got back to the Pad – better than fine, actually, because mere moments after they made their entrance, Clarabel opened the door and strode in, shoulders high, moving kind of stiffly.

"This is the perfect opportunity to do exactly what we were discussing," Mike muttered to Peter. "Let's kill her with kindness." He pasted an ingratiating smile on his face. "Why hello there, Clarabel – and how are you today?"

"Get lost!" she said, swiping the back of her hand across her eyes.

"Would you like a pillow?" Peter asked, holding one out to her. "Or – or I could make you some of my special chicken jelly!"

"No thanks," she said. "I just came back to get my purse." She pushed past Micky and into the kitchen, where her bag hung off the back of one of their chairs. "I'm sure _you'll_ be glad to hear I won't be stopping by anymore. Since Davy just broke up with me."

"Oh, that _is_ a relief," Peter said, bestowing his sunniest smile upon her, while Mike went for a more tactful, "Oh, well that's just – just" –

"So – congratulations. You win," Clarabel said, as she slung her purse over her arm, "since I guess I just proved your dumb theory. Davy's not interested in girls." She turned and looked Micky square in the eyes, and admitted, "He's not interested in _me_."

Sure, she was a manipulative, scheming, ruthless locker-upper of friends and bandmates, without a scrupulous bone in her body…still, Micky couldn't help but feel for her. Of course, the first words that came out of his mouth when he moved closer to her were, "Yeah, well…I did try to warn you."

He didn't mean it in a mean way, and oddly enough, Clarabel seemed to take it in the half-conciliatory spirit in which it was intended.

"Yeah. I guess you did," she admitted, relaxing her posture a little bit. "I kinda wish I'd taken your advice now."

"Well – gee...don't – don't take it so hard. I didn't start this experiment to make you feel bad."

"Why _did_ you start it then?" she asked. "I mean – I still don't see why it was so important to you. Just because someone marches to the beat of a different drummer, that doesn't make them _bad. _Or – or _wrong_."

"I never said it did," Micky said, stung.

"Then…why did you do it? Why'd you set up this whole stupid experiment and then rope me into it? Did you want to hurt Davy? Humiliate him? Because I'm trying, but I can't think of one good reason to do something like this. Can _you_?"

She tipped her chin up defiantly, and Micky stared at her, because…

…because he'd _never_ intended to hurt Davy, or humiliate him. In fact those were options he'd never, not even once considered.

He'd just…wanted to _know_.

Wanted to know, because he wanted…

The answer came, loud and clear. "No. I guess I can't."

But it wasn't Micky who said it. And it hit Micky, with a sudden lurch of insight, that Clarabel _hadn't left her purse_ in the Pad that morning, and that Davy was not, as he had assumed, still down by the beach.

Instead he stood in the now-open doorway of his and Peter's bedroom.

Micky's mind went blank, like a slate wiped suddenly, violently clean. All he could do was stare, riveted by Davy's gaze.

"I'm sorry, Davy," Clarabel said, straightening up. In spite of the serious expression on her face, there was a quirk of satisfaction to her words. "I _did _try to warn you."

"Yeah," Davy said. His eyes traveled Micky's face. "You did."

Micky swallowed. "Davy – uh…hi" –

"Oh, would you look at that. Davy's right there," Mike said faintly. He closed his eyes and rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyelids, as if he had a sudden headache.

"We should look on the bright side. At least things can't get worse," Peter said.

"So it's true then. What Clarabel said."

Micky's lips felt numb. Looking into Davy's eyes was like getting knocked sideways by an icy wave – all the worse for being almost unprecedented. Still, he took in a breath that didn't seem to reach his lungs and then another, all the while desperately scrabbling for words that for once, didn't come.

"Now hold on just a minute here," Mike said, charging into the fray with almost gallant determination. His gaze flicked between Davy, Clarabel and Micky and he said, "Now I'm not denying that there's some truth to what she says…but I'm also betting that you're not getting the whole story – and the only person who can give you that, is Micky. And if you let him explain – you'll see it's not as bad as it sounds."

"It's not?" Peter asked. "Because it sounds pretty bad, Mike."

Mike flapped a hand at him, while Davy looked at Micky. "All right," he said.

"You're not _actually_ going to _let_ him _explain, _are you? After what he did to you?"

Davy ignored her. "All that stuff – the notebook, and all those questions about girls," his mouth twisted a little, "and setting me up. That was true, right? That was all part of it?"

Micky licked his lips. "Yeah," he had to admit.

Davy nodded, just once. "All right. Why?"

The thing about Davy was that he was a romantic – and most people didn't really understand what that meant. Most people heard 'romantic' and automatically paired it up with 'hopeless.'

Davy wasn't a _hopeless_ romantic. He was a _ruthless _romantic. You couldn't give so much of yourself that quickly, only to then whip it away just as easily whenever your next true love came around…without being at least a little ruthless.

And Micky'd wanted to understand that – to comprehend the science behind the way Davy's eyes could turn from the starriest of vistas, to black holes of indifference.

The drive behind it was formless – like asking Isaac Newton, 'Why gravity?' or Alexander Graham Bell, 'Why this groovy communication device?' It just – _was. _

"Hey, man, it wasn't…I didn't mean anything by it. I just – wanted to know." He held his hands, palm out, to the sides.

"You could have asked," Davy said. His eyes flicked over Micky briefly, head to toe. "But then I guess that's something a friend would do."

He turned on his heel, and marched toward the door. As he passed, Mike tried to place a hand on his shoulder, but Davy shrugged him off.

"The truth hurts, huh?" Clarabel told Micky, before hurrying after him.

And there it was. He understood at last – first hand, how Davy's eyes could change from attentive and engaged, to disinterested – done.

Because it had been there, in that quick but comprehensive glance. Davy'd taken Micky in, but for the first time…

…he'd also written him off.

The Pad door banged shut.

"Kaboom," Mike said quietly.


	5. Chapter 5

The next couple of hours passed in an uncharacteristically subdued fashion. Mike and Peter tried to cheer things up a little, by offering him a variety of unusual and indigestible delicacies (Peter) – and advice (Mike).

"It's a hard thing to find out you've been running through someone else's maze," he told Micky. "But – Davy's your friend. Just give him a little time to cool down, and I'm sure he'll figure out you didn't mean any real harm by it." He stopped. "At the very least he's got to remember that you don't have the attention-span for cold-blooded malice."

He reached out and tapped the cover of Micky's notebook. "You know…maybe if he knew the whole story, he'd find it easier to forgive, at least."

"The whole story?" Micky said.

"C'mon, Mick," Mike said. "This," he lifted the notebook on his palm, "You can't tell me that this is just about _Davy_."

Micky opened his mouth to oppose this viewpoint, because he sure hadn't been keeping tabs on anyone else. But he found, looking at Mike's face, that he couldn't.

Mike patted him on the back. "I think you oughta start reading between the lines," he advised.

"That's what_ I_ always do," Peter said. "I finish more books that way."

Micky picked up his notebook and turned to the first page.

* * *

The story he found between the lines of his notebook was so out there, he ended up _re-reading _between the lines. But that was okay. He had time.

And…looking back over his scribbled notes– he couldn't deny that there was a clear, undeniable pattern, loud as plaid.

Sure, he _could_ put his actions down to scientific curiosity, but the truth of the matter was…

The _truth_ of the matter was – he didn't want Davy marching to the beat of a _different_ drummer. He wanted Davy to march to the beat of one _particular_ drummer. _Him_.

_He liked Davy. _

Well, he'd always liked Davy, but now there was an extra layer to it – like a double decker sandwich – made up of the feeling of Davy's hand against his waist, the soft, intent look in his eyes when they talked sometimes, the catch in Micky's chest and the curl of want in his stomach that one time Davy'd leaned up and almost done it – almost kissed him.

He reflected that probably it wasn't the most orthodox or effective way to get Davy to notice him – by engineering his dating prospects and spying on the phony relationship that developed.

"It's unique, I'll give it that," Mike allowed.

"That's even trippier than that story I found between the lines of _War and Peace,_" Peter said.

"Still, there you go," Mike said, as if the sudden inconvenient discovery of suppressed feelings for a bandmate/friend/vertically challenged maraca-player was like finding a coin between the couch cushions. "Love makes people do crazy things. And if anyone oughta understand that, it's Davy."

"Problem solved!" Peter said. He smiled wide in relief. "Boy, I'm glad that that's over with."

"Except for the part where I have to actually explain all this to Davy, and hope he _does_ understand."

Peter's face fell. "Oh. I forgot about that part." He looked at Mike. "What do we do now?"

"Only thing we can do. Wait, I guess," Mike said.

They followed that advice, sitting around the table as the seconds piled up into minutes, and the minutes heaped into hours...until their eyes became heavy and they began yawning in chorus…

…and then three part harmony.

Finally, Micky felt compelled to say, "It's okay. You two oughta go to bed. I'll wait up. I'm the one who has to talk to Davy anyway."

"Are you sure?" Mike asked.

"Yeah," Peter yawned. Even as he stumbled to his feet, he said, "I don't mind staying up. I'm not tired at all."

"Nah. I'm fine. Anyway, it's not like I'll be on my own." He reached out placed a hand on Mr Schneider's shoulder.

"You know, maybe you oughta go to bed too," Mike said. He glanced at the stopped clock on the wall. "I mean, it's getting kind of late, and – it looks like…maybe he's not gonna show up tonight."

"Yeah. In a couple of minutes," Micky said.

Mike considered him. "You know…even if Davy doesn't make it home tonight – it doesn't mean anything. He'll be back tomorrow."

"I know," Micky said. He didn't, though.

The kitchen had been quiet before, the only sounds the three of them yawning in tandem, and the quick indrawn breaths when one or other of them caught himself drifting off and forced himself back to wakefulness – but now, with Peter and Mike gone, it was even quieter.

"So," Micky said finally, addressing Mr Schneider. "How about you? What's your take on this thing? You got any advice for me?"

He pulled Mr Schneider's cord, but no sound came out. Mr Schneider just continued to sit, face fixed in his usual expression of bland pleasantness.

Micky sighed. "Figures you'd be on Davy's side."

* * *

The soft click of someone opening the Pad door was what woke Micky early the next morning. He lifted his head from its resting place on his forearm, and wandered out of the kitchen, wincing at the pain that twinged all the way down his neck.

It was very early, and he was disoriented from lack of proper sleep, so his first reaction when he saw Davy standing by the door, was to half-absently say, "Oh, hey Davy," as he wandered past.

A few seconds later, his memory caught up with his sleep-deprived body. He whirled around. "Davy! _Davy!" _His hands reached out to grasp Davy's shoulders, only to stop awkwardly in midair and curl back at his sides. He tried to play it off. "You – uh, you're here."

"Looks like it," Davy said. He met Micky's eyes with a kind of unblinking fierceness, and Micky had to fight the urge to look away. Davy looked tired, maybe even as tired as Micky felt. "Mind you, me being here _could_ all just be a bad dream. I haven't ruled that one out yet."

Micky flinched. "Davy…" he had to clear his throat. "I – we…look, about yesterday – we should talk. I should talk. And keep talking until, you know, you forgive me, with any luck. And I'd really like to get started on that right away, if I could, so…do you want to sit down?"

"I can't," Davy said. "I'm just here to get some clothes."

"What? _No_ – because of yesterday? No, you can't – look, just let me apologize."

He waited. Finally, Davy said, "Okay."

Micky closed his eyes in relief. "I'm sorry," he said, and maybe it wasn't much of an apology, but he meant the words so intensely they practically vibrated with sincerity. "I'm really sorry, Davy."

"All right," Davy said, evenly. "Now can I get my clothes?"

Micky was struck dumb as Davy stepped past, mind a white, panicked blank. What if this was something he couldn't _fix? _What if he'd taken this thing apart, disassembled this relationship into its component parts…only to find that he couldn't put it back together? If Davy didn't want to accept a simple apology, how was he going to react to an actual _explanation?_ By the time he found the presence of mind to chase after Davy, he was coming out of the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him. He had a pair of pants and a shirt slung over his arm.

Suddenly, Micky found he could speak again. "What? You – you still want to leave? No – no, man…I'm _sorry. _It was – it was a dumb idea, I didn't mean anything by it, I _swear._" The words poured out in a deluge of panic, all thought of actually _explaining _gone, replaced with the need to just make Davy _stay_. "Look – stay there, and let me get Mike. Mike'll fix this."

He didn't actually move though, because leaving Davy to get Mike would give Davy the opportunity to walk out. "How about I wake him with an early morning cry for help? Really gets the blood pumping, they say. Why don't we try it? MI" –

"Don't." Davy didn't say the word loudly, but somehow, the force of it took the air out of Micky's lungs. "I don't want you to wake Mike. Or Peter."

Micky swallowed. He forced himself to take a breath. It hurt. "I'm sorry," he said.

Davy looked down. "I know."

The relief was so strong it felt like it could knock him over. "You do?"

"Of course you're sorry," Davy said, matter of factly. He looked up, and the relief vanished. "I mean – can't finish that experiment now, can you?"

He strode toward the door, and Micky fumbled his way in front of him. "No – _no. _That's not why I'm sorry. I'm sorry I started the experiment in the first place. If you're mad at me, then stay _here_ and be mad at me – it's more convenient!"

Davy tried to side-step around him.

"Well then, at least – at least tell us where you're going, so we know where you are. Are you staying with Clarabel?"

That was the wrong question, because Davy pushed him aside with, "Why? You taking _notes_?"

And suddenly it didn't matter – it really didn't matter that he was maybe a little bit in love with Davy. It didn't matter if he never got a chance to explain his feelings, or whether Davy ever understood _why_ he'd done what he'd done.

The only thing that mattered was that they were _friends. _And nothing was worth the risk of losing that.

So he did the only thing he could think of. He grabbed Davy's arm to prevent him leaving. Davy looked down at his hand, and then up at Micky, but when Micky immediately let go, as if he'd been burned, Davy didn't move. Micky counted that as a success.

"The audition," he said. "It's tomorrow."

Davy's expression didn't change, but Micky kept going anyway. Because this friendship was a four-way thing, and even if one of the links between him and Davy was broken, there were still two other links that Davy cared about. And maybe _that_ was the way to get through to Davy. "I know you're mad at me. And you can _be_ mad at me – just…don't take it out on Mike and Pete…okay?"

Three tense seconds later, and Davy nodded, just once, before turning and walking out the door.

* * *

"Well then," Mike said later that morning, when Micky told him, "we'll see him at the audition. He'll be there."

His confidence bolstered Micky's.

"He probably just needs a little more time to cool off," Mike added.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "Like that time he ate one of my spicy Tabasco muffins."

It was a long day.

* * *

The audition turned out to be a disappointment. Actually, it turned out to be a lot more 'open' than they had been led to believe.

"You know, we kinda got the impression, Micky and myself, that this audition was going to be a private kind of thing," Mike said, as they chased after the manager, squeezing between a freckled guy holding a cello, and a girl brandishing a dulcimer. "This – _this_ is a cattle call."

"Well, boys, the thing is…I got to thinking after our little meeting – and I decided that an open audition was the best and only way to figure out the unique musical sound that best expresses _The Flybynight's _sophisticated and offbeat sensibility." He smiled at them. "But don't worry – you boys have _just _as much chance of nabbing this gig as anyone else." He paused. "All right…maybe you've got a little less chance than that classical quartet…but compared to a lot of these people, you're still in the running."

Mike slumped against the wall. He narrowly avoided getting his foot run over by a guy pushing a barrel organ.

"At least we're beating out those guys with the kazoos and the bagpipes?" Peter offered.

"I guess there is that," Mike acknowledged. He sighed.

But as the time ticked on, a problem greater than all the assorted kazoos and bagpipes put together arose. Davy was nowhere to be found. They kept ushering other groups ahead of them, but finally, after waving Cassie (the girl with the dulcimer) through, it was just them and the classical quartet left.

Mike cleared his throat. "You know – it's…not looking good. Maybe Davy just – forgot."

"He _has_ had a lot on his mind lately," Peter agreed. "What with all the double dealing and fake relationships."

Micky remembered the small nod Davy had given him, before walking out the door. "He said he'd be here."

Just then, a welcome voice broke in to the discussion. "Thought this was an audition, not a wake. What's got everyone looking so serious?"

Davy stood a little to the side, and he sounded normal, casual, but there was a kind of tension in the way he was standing, and his eyes glanced quickly over Micky before he looked away.

"Davy!" Peter cried, and he and Mike rushed over to him. Micky hung back a little, incredibly reassured by Davy's presence, but unwilling to push things. Flanked by Mike and Peter, Davy looked at him, face solemn, but he tipped his chin upwards a little, in acknowledgment.

"So – how about this audition then?" he asked.

Micky began to think that things might just work out okay after all.

And that feeling only grew, as they finally took to the stage and played. Music was like that – you couldn't be angry with someone, seriously never-speaking-to-them-again angry, and then turn around and make music with them.

Or at least – that was how it seemed to Micky. Because from the moment Mike said, "All right. Let's do this," and they began to play, to the final chord of the last song, Micky felt…exhilarated. Swept up in it, in performing, in creating music with his three best friends – music that didn't need to exist at all…but did anyway, just because of the sheer love they felt for it.

And he knew, every time he caught Davy's eyes, that _he_ felt it too. Music had a way of doing that – of whittling situations down to their purest, simplest forms. When they had finished, breathless and still grinning from the utter lunatic joy of it, the manager told them to hang around. They trooped backstage, where the other hopeful (the girl with the dulcimer) was waiting.

She leapt off the couch when she saw them approaching. "Oh thank goodness!" she said. "Quick – one of the bagpipe players has locked himself in the restroom and he won't come out! He said that modern Americans don't have a proper appreciation for the noble and long-standing aerophone. He's playing a dirge, and I've just got _such _a bad feeling!"

Mike glanced between Davy and Micky. "That sounds like as good an excuse as any," he decided with a shrug. "Why don't Pete and I go see if we can't sort this aerophone situation out, while you two...stay right here and talk?"

"Hurry – he's been playing for the last ten minutes – he can't have much air left!" Cassie caught hold of Peter and Mike's arms, and they hurried out the side door, toward the low and mournful sound of piping.

Micky and Davy looked at each other for a few moments. Micky tried to press his lips together to keep them from quirking upwards, the thrill of playing still thrumming through his veins. But Davy was smiling too – a very little, but still.

"You, uh, you sounded good out there," Micky told him.

"You too," Davy acknowledged. The small smile still stretched his mouth.

Before he could think about it, Micky asked, "Friends?" and stuck his hand out.

Davy looked down at his outstretched hand. It was only a moment, a split second, but it was long enough for dread to run a sandpapery finger down Micky's spine. But then Davy looked up, and agreed, "Friends."

This time, there was no fighting the smile that spread across his face – but it was okay, because Davy was smiling back just as wide. A laugh bubbled out of his throat. "Really?" he managed.

"Really," Davy almost wheezed, doubling up as he lost his own battle against laughter.

Micky steered him toward the couch by taking a hold of his arm (and that was such a _relief, _to be able to do that again, to be _allowed _to do that again) – where they sat for a couple of minutes until they'd both calmed down.

Finally, when Davy took a deep breath and wiped his eyes, Micky said, quickly, "Thanks. I really _am _sorry, you know. I shouldn't have" –

"Taken notes on me, then set me up with a strange girl just so you could watch our relationship crash close-up?" Davy finished.

"Yeah. That."

"S'alright," Davy said. "I mean – I know you didn't mean it the way it seemed." He stopped, teeth worrying his lower lip, before abruptly straightening his shoulders and saying, "Besides…it seemed sort of petty to be angry about it when – you were right."

"Boy, I'm glad you see it like that. For a while there, I was really afraid that" – Micky blinked. "I was – _right_?"

Davy gave him a one-shouldered shrug. "Seems a bit silly to deny it. After all, you were the one dragged me kicking and screaming to the truth."

"My hypothesis was _right,_" Micky repeated. Davy flinched a little at the word 'hypothesis', but just said, "Yeah."

"Are you okay?" Micky asked. He didn't sound all right.

"I broke up with Clarabel," he said. Then, after a pause, "I just – never really thought about it before. You know – you meet a girl, you think she might be the one, only she's not…and that's fine, that's all right, because there are lots of _other_ girls in the world. Only you keep meeting those other girls...and turns out, they're never the right one either. And then – I don't know…you," his eyes flicked to Micky, then away, "started this experiment, and…all of a sudden, I just couldn't tell myself it was the girls anymore."

His voice was quiet, serious.

"Well…at least you _know _now, right?" he said, fumbling for a bright side. "That's got to be some comfort."

"Oh yeah. Now I know. For all the good it does me. I mean – what am I supposed to _do _now?" he asked, turning to face Micky full-on.

His fingers were clenched into fists on his knees. Guilt shot sharply through Micky like an arrow. He swallowed. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't – I didn't do this to hurt you. I never meant to make you feel _bad _about it."

Davy looked at him for a long moment. The quiet between them stretched out, underscored by the plaintive, far-off wailing of bagpipes. There was a word for this, Micky thought. Because this silence wasn't calm – rather, it was charged. Sure, nothing was happening – but there was a pervasive feeling that something _might _happen, was _about to _happen.

_Potential energy_, Micky thought absently. That was the term.

Then Davy breathed in, out…and asked, voice very low, "Then why _did _you do it?"

Micky's eyes snapped to his, as the rubber-band silence stretched and stretched…

"I" – he said. "That is – um, I" –

The bagpipes whined at the very edge of his hearing. His head was a jumble of words and images – the soft look in Davy's eyes on the doorstep of the Pad, juxtaposed with the hard, unforgiving look in his eyes as he'd walked out the Pad door. The tone of his voice when he'd said, _You just have to work up your nerve, and go for it, _and the very different tone of voice he'd used as he said, _But then, I guess that's something a __friend __would do._

Micky swallowed.

_You just have to work up your nerve, and go for it._

_But then, I guess that's something a friend would do._

"…scientific curiosity," he said.

The rubber band silence snapped.

Davy laughed. "Scientific curiosity?" He didn't seem disbelieving, more wryly incredulous. "Why? What did you think was going to happen? I'd decide I like boys, and suddenly, they'd start throwing themselves at me? Hate to disappoint you, but s'probably not how this type of thing works."

_You just have to work up your nerve, and go for it._

Micky took a deep breath "Actually, _I_" – he began.

At that precise moment, the freckled cello-player opened the door, and hurried toward them, only to trip, pitching face first along the arm of the couch, to land sprawled across Davy's lap.

Micky blinked.

"Sorry!" the freckled cello-player said. "I'm so sorry – didn't mean to" – he braced his hands on Davy's thighs and levered himself to a kneeling position. "I – oh," he said as he met Davy's eyes. "Sorry," he said again, a little breathlessly. "Um. Oh." He shook his head. "Have you seen a lucky double-tailed coin? I had it just before we went onstage."

His hands were still on Davy's thighs. Micky suddenly felt foreboding go down his spine.

"No – haven't seen it," Davy said,. "Hang on – we'll stand up, and then you can pull out the cushions." He got to his feet, standing right next to the freckled cello-player, and gestured for Micky to get up. Micky did, standing on feet that felt like they were weighed down with lead.

" – I mean, we played just fine, but the thing is, we've never actually booked a gig without my lucky double-tailed coin, you see. Freddie Foster-Simmons, by the way," he said. He extended his hand.

"Davy Jones." Freddie Foster-Simmons seemed in no hurry to release Davy's hand. Nor did Davy seem at all bothered by this. Eyes darting between them, Micky considered that things were off to a terrible start.

Freddie Foster-Simmons just dripped _gee-whiz!_ earnestness, with wide eyes and a slight gap between his front teeth.

He was almost unbearably wholesome-looking.

And Davy had a definite type.

"And how many gigs have you booked _with _your lucky coin?" he asked. His voice seemed to come out louder than usual. It made Freddie Foster-Simmons jump and pull his hand away from Davy, anyway.

"Oh…well…this one would be the first. That's why we needed the lucky coin, you see," he said.

Davy pulled out the cushions and felt around the back of the couch. "No sign of it – sorry," he said.

"It's all right," Freddie said. "Thanks for helping me look, anyway. It's – really nice of you."

"Well, that's just the kind of people we are," Micky said in his new, too-loud voice. "Helpful. Friendly. Respectful. Kind to dogs and babies."

It didn't matter, as Freddie Foster-Simmons and Davy ignored him. "Glad to help. Even if you _are_ the competition."

"I don't know how much competition we're going to be without my coin," Freddie Foster-Simmons said ruefully. "Well…I suppose…I'd better get back to my friends…" His reluctance to actually do so was palpable, as he stood there, scuffing his shoe against the ground.

"I suppose so," Davy agreed. "We should know who the lucky group is in a minute."

"Right. Well – thanks again." He began moving backwards, calling over his shoulder, "And – good luck!"

"You too," Davy called back. He kept staring after him, even after the door closed.

Micky clapped his hands (Davy didn't react) and said with a brightness so false it left a sour taste in his mouth, "So! Well! That sure was" – He slumped at Davy's continued, unwavering attention toward the door. "Aw, man…Davy, don't do this. I really don't think he's the right boy for us."

* * *

The classical quartet got the gig.

"Looks like they didn't need that double-tailed coin after all," Micky said.

"I guess we just didn't have that sophisticated and offbeat sensibility they were looking for," Peter said, wringing toilet water out of his shirt.

"You know, I woulda thought a _dulcimer _had all the sophisticated and off-beat sensibility they needed," Cassie sniffed. "Guess it was a waste of time showing up."

The guy holding the bagpipes played a low, soggy sounding note.

Mike sighed, but when his eyes fell on Micky and Davy, he said, "Well, I wouldn't say it was a _complete_ waste…"

Across the room, Freddie Foster-Simmons lifted up his head, and smiled at Davy.

* * *

Back at the Pad, after Peter and Mike had finally dried out, the tense ball of worry in Micky's stomach finally started to ease. In spite of all the shy smiles, Freddie Foster-Simmons had made no attempt to approach Davy, and Davy, in spite of all the staring, had likewise made no attempt to get closer to Freddie Foster-Simmons. Freddie was clearly no take-charge Clarabel, while Micky supposed the suddenness of Davy's sexual reorientation had left him feeling off-balance and slightly less self-assured than usual. Not self-assured enough to approach Freddie Foster-Simmons, anyway.

It had been a close one, but now, they were home, with no reason for Davy and Freddie Foster-Simmons' paths to cross ever again.

It was at that precise second that Davy put his hand into his pants pocket and said, "Hey…there's a coin in here…"

Micky's heart sank.

"Why is that unusual?" Peter asked.

"Well, they're _my_ trousers," Davy said. "Usually all I find in the pockets are holes." Peter considered this, then had to nod in acknowledgment.

Davy turned to Micky. "Hang on a minute – I wonder if this is the coin Freddie was talking about?" He examined the coin, flipping it over in his hand. "Double-tailed – yes – that's the one!"

"Who's Freddie?" Mike asked, frowning.

"Who's Freddie?" Davy repeated. He paused, and then, almost experimentally, he said, "He's – he's spectacular, glorious, terrific…"

"He's the cellist in that classical quartet," Micky said flatly.

"Oh," Mike said, and "…_oh,"_ again, as he looked at Davy.

Davy looked down at the coin cradled in his palm. "I guess I'd better return it to him…funny, it turning up in my pocket – almost like we were supposed to meet each other again…"

Micky couldn't stop himself from cracking, "Yeah – it's like _Brief Encounter _for the swinging sixties." He suddenly felt like he had a bad case of lead poisoning.

"I could go down to the _Flybynight _tomorrow, and return it to him." Davy said.

Micky briefly considered swimming with electric eels, or maybe just taking a bath with the radio within easy reach – just to compare the feeling of being electrocuted with _this _feeling. He could feel Mike's eyes on him.

"Uh…you know, I don't think it's such a good idea to search this guy out," Mike said.

"You don't?" Davy asked.

"I don't."

"Why not, Mike?" Peter echoed.

Mike threw an exasperated look in Peter's direction. "Well…because – he's… he's a cellist, that's why! And – and those classical music players, well, some of them are – notoriously prejudiced! They don't take our kind of music seriously. Why, back in Texas, I knew this oboe player – used to push me down into the dirt every day coming home from school. And I've heard that cellists are the worst of all."

"Oh, I don't think Freddie's like that," Davy assured Mike. "He seemed very friendly – didn't he?" He turned to Micky.

"Oh yeah. He was friendly all right," he allowed.

"But if you're still worried, we could both go down there tomorrow – you don't mind, do you, Micky?"

It had been bearable when Davy'd been flirting with girls, with Clarabel, because Micky'd had a notebook full of evidence to prove that they didn't really _count. _The last thing in the world he wanted to do was go down to the _Flybynight _and watch Davy flirt with someone who _mattered_.

The last thing in the world he wanted to do was watch Davy flirt with someone who wasn't _him._

He wouldn't do it.

He _couldn't _do it_. _

"Mind?" he said. "I'd be happy to! Overjoyed! Ecstatic! That's – why would I _mind_?"


	6. Chapter 6

After dinner, while Mike and Peter cleaned up, he escaped upstairs to the bedroom, to the collection of gears and cogs that no longer looked like a glorious, unexplored possibility, but more like a stupid, unfixable mistake. He poked at the pieces a little, just to show half-hearted willing.

There was a knock, and Micky frowned as Davy poked his head around the door. "Can I come in?" he asked.

The question made him blink in confusion. "Yeah. Of course."

Davy crossed the floor and sat next to him. Their arms didn't brush but the sense of déjà-vu was palpable. To Micky, anyway.

There was a silence, while Davy frowned down at the floor. "I just – wanted to check that you're all right about tomorrow. You really don't mind going back to the _Flybynight?_"

Micky wondered whether this feeling – like his stomach was filled with rusty car batteries, and that Davy had just handed him a glass of lemon-juice and told him to drink up – counted as _minding. _

"Why would I mind?" he asked again.

"I don't know. No reason, really. I just – wanted to make sure." Davy lapsed into silence.

"So…" Micky said finally. "Freddie. You're…really thinking about it. Going for it." Nausea rolled giddily through his body.

Davy thought about it. "I don't know," he said. His fingers toyed absently with the double-tailed coin. "I mean – he seemed nice, but" –

"But?" Micky jumped on the word like it was a trampoline.

" – I don't know what to do, or where to begin. I don't even know if _he_ – I mean, I've never done this before…s'not like I _know."_

"He fell right into your lap," Micky couldn't help pointing out.

Davy brightened slightly. "I suppose there _were_ some signs. But," he frowned a little, "I still don't know _how_ to do this, or where to start."

The thing was – he could use that. He could take Davy's unfamiliarity with this whole scene, and spin a whole bunch of reasons why they shouldn't go down to the _Flybynight, _and Davy shouldn't flirt with Freddie, or stand next to him, or smile at him, or touch him –

Except…acting like that, trying to keep Davy in the dark and playing games – that was what had gotten them into trouble in the first place. And Micky _was _still sorry about that – for treating this thing like a game, for making Davy, _Davy, _who radiated confidence like a beacon, say things like, _What am I supposed to do now? _ and _I don't know what to do, or where to begin. _That wasn't _right. _

The bottom line was – Davy deserved to have guys fall straight into his lap, and Micky…

…well, Micky probably deserved a stomach full of car batteries and lemon juice.

So, he made himself say, "You know – I don't think there's any big secret to it."

"There's not?" Davy said. His eyebrows raised as if he didn't quite believe this.

"Nah." Micky shook his head. "It – probably works the same way it works with girls. You – find someone you like, and then…you just – work up your nerve, and go for it."

Davy almost smiled. "Work up my nerve and go for it," he repeated. He thought about it, as he looked at Micky, a gleam of something Micky wanted to call _speculation_ in his eye.

"I think you're right," he decided finally. "It is like with girls – I just need a bit of practice, and then I'll be fine." He crossed his legs under him, and turned to face Micky more fully.

There was a certain air of expectancy about him. Micky blinked at this. "What?"

"Come on," Davy urged him. "Just think of it as part of your experiment. It's not like you had any problem holding hands or looking at me like" – Davy stopped so suddenly, it was as if his words had run into a brick wall.

"Like?"

"It doesn't matter," Davy told him, with an impatient shake of his head. "I just want to practice a bit – nothing serious…just see what it's like, get used to it" –

"It?"

"Kissing," Davy said.

Micky's heart jumped, like it had just been electroshocked. "You want – to kiss me?"

"No, not – I mean, not _want, _exactly."

"– of course not," Micky said, because this was his life now. Equal parts fermented car batteries and sexual frustration.

"You can – be objective, you know, like you were in the experiment, and I'll…be thinking about Freddie."

"So you'll be thinking about Freddie while you're kissing me."

Davy paused. "Well…it'd be – kind of weird if I was thinking about _you_."

"Yeah," Micky agreed, brightly despairing. "That _would _be –weird."

"All right then." Davy wiped his hands on his pants, brisk, business-like.

Kissing Davy. His heart leapt into his throat.

Kissing Davy _while Davy was imagining someone else_. His heart sank like a weighted balloon.

"I don't know if this is such a good idea," he said.

"It'll be just like that time you held hands with me."

"Except wetter," Micky pointed out.

Davy grinned. "If we're doing it right."

"Okay!" Micky decided, the word impulsively zooming out of his mouth.

"Okay," Davy repeated. "Good." He leaned in, but as Micky reached out to cup his face, he flinched away. "Um – I don't think…" he cleared his throat. "Let's just keep it simple," he said. "No hands."

It was odd, sure…but what _wasn't _odd about this whole situation?

"No hands?" Micky said, over the pounding in his ears. "I think I saw a magic trick like that once." Ostentatiously, he held up both hands, palms out, then put them behind his back, crossing them at the wrist.

Davy leaned forward once more, and this time, Micky mirrored him, inclining forward until their lips brushed, a soft, barely-there pressure. But Micky could feel it from that very first instant, something like intuition tingling through his body, in his toes and fingertips, thumping through his veins. It was the kind of feeling he got when he looked down at a slew of machinery parts, separate, seemingly unconnected – and knew that he could _make _something out of them.

He did what he always did when he had that feeling – he surged forwards, reckless with triumph. Because he knew that if he just pressed forward, and opened his mouth, then Davy would make _that sound_, and slide his tongue against Micky's – and if he kissed harder and deeper, and pulled Davy's shirt out of his pants to run his hands up along Davy's ribcage, then Davy would respond by tangling one hand in his hair, while his other hand slid down Micky's shirt before finally reaching the front of his pants and fumbling to undo his belt buckle. It was a simple question of balance and counterbalance, so if Micky caught hold of Davy's hips and pulled him even closer, then Davy just _had_ to push –

Suddenly he was flat on his back on the bedroom floor…though not precisely in the way he'd planned. His legs weren't wrapped around Davy's hips for one thing.

"Um. I think that's enough practice," Davy's voice drifted over to him. He sounded out of breath.

Right. Practice. Micky blinked up at the ceiling and tried to even out his own breathing.

"Thanks," Davy said, face appearing above Micky. "That was – that was really good. I – feel a lot more confident about this whole thing now."

Right. Because Micky _wanted_ Davy to feel confident enough to make sexual advances to other boys.

"Glad I could help you with that." Micky shifted, and pulled out the screwdriver that was digging into the space between his shoulderblades.

* * *

"I don't see why you don't just tell Davy you like him," Mike told him later that night.

"Because brutal rejection is bad for my nervous system," Micky said.

"I don't know how 'brutal' it'd be," Mike said. "Davy'd probably let you down easy. And at the very least he'd probably stop seeing this Freddie guy, out of consideration to your feelings.""

"Well yeah…but see, my system's so sensitive even a mild _no_ makes me break out in a rash."

"So you're just going to let Davy date someone else and suffer in silence?"

"Well…I don't know about silence…" Micky admitted.

Mike sighed.

* * *

The return of the double-tailed coin turned out to be just as painful as a sudden screwdriver to the back.

"I guess it _is _lucky after all," Freddie breathed, looking at Davy with wide, adoring eyes. He took the coin from Davy's palm, hand lingering over Davy's in a way that made Micky's stomach twist. "Listen – can I…I'd like to take you to lunch – to show my appreciation. Do you know anywhere good?"

Micky jumped into the conversation. "Sounds great. I hear there's a nice little coffee-shop nearby, I think it's…" he calculated distance with his fingers, "…somewhere around the second circle of hell. Maybe you've heard of it?"

"Actually I don't know the area very well," Freddie told Micky, not bothering to look away from Davy, who returned his soft-eyed fervor. "But you seem pretty familiar with it – why don't you lead the way?"

In _Dante's Diner, _Davy and Freddie's hands brushed as they reached for the salt-cellar, the napkins, and the cutlery. Every time, Freddie ducked his head and said, "Gosh, I'm sorry," and Davy smiled at him and said, "S'alright. Don't worry about it."

Micky sat opposite them and steadfastly shoveled bites of patty melt into his mouth until his cheeks bulged.

By the end of the meal, Freddie had plucked up enough courage to mention the new movie playing at the movie theater and the fact that he had an extra ticket, if Davy wanted…

And of course Davy wanted!

Micky washed down the patty melt with a long, painfully fizzy gulp of soda.

* * *

That was only the torturous beginning. After that, came the excruciating middle – made up of late night movie-dates, early morning walks on the beach, Freddie stopping by the Pad 'just because', smiling at Davy and standing way too close to him, and sharing lingering moments on the doorstep whenever he and Davy had to say goodbye.

Late one morning, Micky had back from the beach to catch Freddie coming out of Davy's bedroom. Freddie'd frozen, flushing red to the roots of his hair, and saying, with a terrible impersonation of casualness, "Oh! Micky! Um! Davy was just – just showing me something in his bedroom!"

Yeah. Micky bet. "Oh," he said.

Freddie had tucked the tail of his shirt into his trousers, nodded awkwardly at Micky and hurried out the door.

Micky had stood in the middle of the kitchen while a horrifying vision entered his mind – Davy and Freddie, walking on the beach with Peter, a casual brush of hands as they moved, subtly matching sweaters, shared smiles as they threw sticks for Peter to fetch…

It felt like a _portent. _It felt like _the real thing. _It felt like – like this could be _it _for Davy.

After that, he spent a lot of time collecting every spare part he could find around the Pad, and assembling them into a towering, monstrous structure that almost reached the bedroom ceiling.

"What – what does it do?" Mike asked carefully, when he'd finally finished.

"This, mostly," Micky said. He touched it with a fingertip, and the thing immediately collapsed, leaving them ankle deep in cogs and gears and motors.

* * *

However, as with so many of Davy's conquests, there was a problem.

"There's a problem," Freddie told them, with a suitably woebegone look on his face.

"There is?" Micky asked, hope abruptly flaring into life.

Freddie nodded. "It's my uncle. He's got the worst attitude about my music. He wants me to come and work at his company – and he's threatening to pull me out of the quartet!"

"That's awful!" Peter said.

"It really doesn't sound fair," Mike acknowledged. He poked Micky in the side. Micky jerked and said, "Yeah, it's – terrible."

Freddie looked at Davy, who cleared his throat and said, "I'm glad you feel like that about it."

"You are – why?" Mike asked.

"Well – it's just…I was talking to Davy, and the thing is – I think my uncle's problem is…he thinks I'm not a real man. He thinks liking classical music and having good table manners makes me, well, weak. And Davy thought – _we _thought…that if he just had a chance to see me doing something he considers manly – it might solve the problem."

"Doing something manly – like what?" Mike asked.

"Off the top of my head…punching a long-haired weirdo might do."

"Oh," Mike said.

"The thing is…I can't punch Davy, because hitting someone smaller than you certainly isn't manly, so it would have to be one of you. And then, thinking ahead – Peter's just too nice, I don't think I could hit him, and Mike, I respect you far too much to take a swing at you, so…"

His eyes fell on Micky.

"You want to hit _me_?" he said.

"Not _want to, _but I believe I could work my way up to it, if pressed."

* * *

Of course, he did it, because Davy cornered him afterwards, and said, "Thanks," (even though he hadn't actually agreed to it yet). He looked up at Micky with intent brown eyes and his fingers curled around Micky's wrist and made him shiver, and really, it was a foregone conclusion that he'd cave.

So there he was, hanging around the outdoor tables at _Dante's Diner _and waiting for Freddie and his uncle to show up, and remembering things like the way Davy's hips had felt under his hands, or the soft lush curl of Davy's tongue against his, the sensation of Davy's warm, smooth skin against his palms –

He was interrupted in these thoughts by Freddie saying, "Psst!" and covertly gesturing at him, while his uncle removed his coat and hung it over the back of one of the chairs.

Micky felt bizarrely, irrationally annoyed. Freddie'd taken Davy and his hips and tongue and warm, smooth skin and annexed them for himself – and now, _now, _he was even elbowing his way into Micky's memories.

It was all just too much.

He felt suddenly calm as he approached them. "Is there a problem?" Freddie asked.

His uncle looked up, upper lip curling in distaste. "Don't encourage the long-haired weirdo, Freddie," he said. He placed a proprietary hand over the bread basket. "He's probably looking for somewhere to 'come down.'"

"This is my table," Micky said. He placed both his hands on it to demonstrate. "You took my table."

"Call the manager, Freddie," said his uncle. The bread basket migrated to his lap.

"But – you weren't even sitting here," Freddie pointed out.

_You just have to work up your nerve, and go for it._

"Well, maybe I was working up to it," Micky said. "Did you ever think of that? Just because I wasn't sitting there, doesn't mean I didn't _want _to sit there. Maybe I was just waiting for the right time, the exact moment, the perfect opportu" –

Freddie hit him.

* * *

A short while afterwards, Micky lay on the couch. Peter pressed a bag of frozen marshmallows pressed against his jaw. Mike patted his shoulder.

Davy leaned over him with concerned eyes. "How're you feeling?"

He opened his mouth as the Pad door burst open and Freddie entered.

"Worse," Micky decided.

"It worked!" Freddie said, catching hold of Davy's arm and pulling him off the couch. "The plan worked!" He turned to Micky. "And it's all thanks to you! You went down so convincingly! Why – I thought you were really hurt! The blood was a great touch."

"Thanks," Micky croaked. "I thought it complimented the contusion nicely."

"And now – now my uncle wants me to train at the Isserlis Classical Conservatory!" He beamed at Davy.

"That is good news!" Davy said. Absently he reached behind him and patted Micky's arm.

"It is." Freddie paused, the tone of his voice abruptly changing. "The only thing is…well, it's going to be a lot of work, and – and I'm going to be around professional classical musicians – the best of the best and…Davy, there's really no easy way to say this, but…we're from two different musical genres, you and I. You have to see that – it could never work between us, not really." Freddie smiled, a little awkwardly. "It has been – _fun _though, hasn't it? While it lasted?"

Davy stared at him for a few moments, before saying, words only slightly tarnished by dullness, "Yeah. Yeah. It has."

Behind them, Mike muttered to Micky and Peter, "What'd I tell you? An oboist'll beat you into the dirt, but a cellist will rip your heart right out."


	7. Chapter 7

After breaking up with Olive Wintergreen, Davy'd been sanguine.

After breaking up with Sabina Santuzza, Davy'd been mildly wistful.

After breaking up with Jane Grayson, Davy'd been jarringly upbeat.

After breaking up with Clarabel Jenkins, Davy'd been sexually confused.

But after breaking up with Freddie Foster-Simmons, Davy was…_difficult. _

He used all the hot water in the shower. He snapped at Peter. He argued with Mike. He moped. He listened to the Dvorak LP Freddie had given him over and over – and then used it as a Frisbee.

The worst part was – this state of affairs _lasted._

"Man, you have _got _to do something about this," Mike told Micky a couple of days later.

Micky felt the fading bruise on his jaw and asked, "Why me?"

"Because you're the one that got us into this mess. You're the one who put Davy in touch with his true feelings. So the way I see it, you're the one responsible for getting him back on track."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't know," Mike said. He thought about it. "You could tell him how you feel about him."

"And how's _that _going to help?"

"Misery loves company?" Mike suggested. He sighed. "I don't know man, but we can't keep going on like this. This just isn't _Davy_."

Mike was right. Davy'd never acted like this after a breakup. And it wasn't fair that he should be so cut up over Freddie, who didn't deserve to have that kind of power over him. Freddie should be cast aside and forgotten every bit as easily as a Wendy Forsythe or an Olive Wintergreen.

Of course, there _was_ something slightly different about Davy's relationship with Freddie as compared to all those girls…but Micky didn't clue in to that until he finally got a chance to raise the issue with Davy.

This happened while they were hiding under old Mrs Nelson's narrow single bed waiting for Mike to replace the blue and white china duck and Peter to give the all clear. Micky inhaled the thick, ticklish smell of dust, along with Davy's clean (well, right up until they'd crawled under the bed) hair and warm skin. Above his head, between the wooden slats of the bed frame, a fly struggled vainly inside a spider web. Micky sighed.

"Mike should be done soon," Davy reassured him. "I know it's a bit of a squash, but" – he wriggled slightly, rubbing up against Micky in the process, causing Micky to close his eyes and loose a small whimper, " – are you okay?"

Micky's eyes snapped open, and the panic of Davy observing him with frowning eyes while they were almost nose to nose, snapped the words into place, "I'm fine. How about you?"

"Like I said, Mike should be done soon and" –

"I didn't mean _that_," Micky said, realizing as he said it just what he _did _mean. "You've been acting weird ever since Freddie went off to that Cellist Conservatory."

There was a small silence before Davy admitted. "I know. Sorry."

"I don't want you to feel sorry," Micky said. "I just – wish you didn't feel so bad about it."

Davy didn't say anything.

Micky cleared his throat. "But – y'know, if you _do _need to feel bad about it…at least don't take it out on Pete and Mike. You can – take it out on me instead. I'm the one who started this thing in the first place."

"S'not your fault," Davy said quietly. "And it's not even…s'not even really about _Freddie_. You know, he never introduced me to the rest of the quartet? And he never wanted to listen to any of our songs…I think Mike was right. I think I was just a maraca player from the wrong side of the music tracks to him."

"But – if you don't miss hanging out with Freddie, then why have you been acting so" – Davy squirmed, and Micky stopped, as it hit him. Davy had been irritable, moody, tense…

_Of course he had been_. Almost as soon as he'd found someone to cure his horizonti-no-go, that person'd up and left him – for a classical conservatory. Man, Micky'd bet that half the steam wafting from under the door of the upstairs bathroom wasn't even coming from the _shower – _by this point Davy was a wound up, sexually frustrated fog machine.

The solution was simple, but also almost heart-stoppingly perfect.

_You just have to work up your nerve, and go for it._

"I think we should have sex," he blurted out, before he could think about it too much.

Davy blinked at him. "What?"

"We should have sex. It would solve all your problems."

Davy blinked some more. "You know, when you said '_Take it out on me,'_ I…didn't think this was what you meant."

"Hey, you know me. Anything to help take the edge off."

Davy did not seem as entranced by Micky's newest plan as Micky himself. Slowly he said, "Mick…I don't think that's such a good" –

Micky kissed him.

"…Okay," Davy said, and kissed him back.

It was every bit as good as Micky remembered (though much dustier), and while Davy wrapped his arms around his neck, twisting his body even closer, Micky tugged the back of Davy's shirt out of his pants and hauled it up under his arms.

It was like starving, and then suddenly being presented with a feast. There was so much, and it was all _so good, _but he just couldn't slow down, hands stroking up Davy's chest, around his back, dipping inside the back pockets of his pants. He buried his face in Davy's neck, feeling the thrumming of Davy's pulse against his lips, against his tongue. Davy's fingers curled around the first button on the fly of his pants and unfastened it, and he had to squeeze his eyes closed because it was too much, and he never wanted it to stop.

Of course that meant that a few minutes later, Davy suddenly whipped his right hand out of the front of Micky's pants, and shoved him away with his left. Micky rolled out from under the bed, and scrabbled to his feet, dusty and aggrieved. "What" –

Davy rolled out the other side. He stood up and swiped a hand across his forehead, leaving a grey smear. "Sorry," Davy said. He took a few deep breaths, then looked at Micky. "I'm sorry. You were right. I have been acting – strange. And – I probably do need to take your advice and just – have sex. But it wouldn't be fair to…"

He straightened up and assured Micky, "It's all right. I'm sure I can find someone more suitable than you to have sex with, don't worry."

Micky stared at him. "I'll…try not to," he said, hoarsely. He rebuttoned his pants.

* * *

One time, Micky'd worked for a lab, cleaning mouse and rat cages. He'd only lasted two days before he'd been fired.

"They just don't seem to like you – you make them uneasy. I mean – the biting, the scratching, the territorial urination…I've _never_ seen a group of scientists act like that before," explained the head-scientist. He paused. "And the mice aren't crazy about you either."

He'd given him a pink-eyed rat (Nitro) in lieu of payment, and urged him not to hang around the parking lot. "I can't be held responsible for my colleagues' actions if they find you alone. They hunt in packs."

But somehow, that humiliation paled in comparison with _this_ – it was one thing for rats and white-coated lab technicians to find him unappealing, it was entirely another for _Davy_ to find him an inferior sexual substitute for a prejudiced classical cellist.

It was degrading.

It was demoralizing.

It felt like he had a motor inside his chest, revving constantly, weakly – right on the brink of running down. It just…flat out _hurt._

And that wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was – knowing with absolute certainty that Davy was _right_, and that there _was_ a far more suitable sex partner out there, just waiting to be discovered. Hell, this was _Davy _he was talking about. There was probably a _busload_ of suitable sexual partners parked right around the corner, all just dying to be chosen.

So after they'd snuck out of Old Mrs Nelson's house, Micky spent the rest of the day laying on his bed and contemplating the ceiling.

"Davy seems a little better," Mike told him. "A little more cheerful. Whatever you said to him must have worked." He paused. "Of course…it looks like it did a real number on _you_."

"It's called a trade-off," Micky said, without taking his eyes off the ceiling. "To make Davy feel better, I have to feel worse. But don't worry – the cumulative amount of misery and happiness remains constant. I think that's called equanimity. Or maybe karma."

"So Davy's happiness balances out your misery?" Mike said. "I don't know about that. After all…you're _bigger _than him. Not to mention," he scratched his head, "he doesn't seem all _that _happy."

* * *

It wasn't until dinner that evening that Micky found a bright side. Or rather, a loophole.

Mike dipped a spoon into his steaming bowl and then let the almost transparent liquid drip back down. "What kind of soup is this, anyway?"

"Split bean soup," Peter said.

"Man, it looks just like water. What kinda beans did you say were in here again?"

"Well…they _were_ going to be Boston Baked Beans, but when I opened the packet, it was empty."

"So this is only called split bean soup because the beans actually" –

"Split," Peter finished. "I don't know where they got to."

Mike sighed. "We really need a gig."

"Maybe we should ask the _Flybynight _if we could have Freddie's old gig," Peter said, as he ladled steaming water into Micky's bowl.

Mike's spoon paused, suspended halfway toward his mouth. He, Micky and Davy stared at each other before Davy said, slowly, "You're right, Peter. That's a great idea."

The thing was…

_A gig took work. _

"He's like one of those plants that thrives on neglect," Micky said, clapping him on the back.

_A gig took effort and preparation. _

"I mean – we were real close to getting that gig last time, and now that Freddie's gone" –

_A gig left very little time for the seeking out of suitable sexual partners. _

Mike finished Davy's sentence, "Well…what's a quartet without a cello?"

_Sure it was petty. Pathetic. Maybe even slightly deplorable. _

"A trio…tet?" Peter hazarded.

_But then…his heart wasn't a bunch of grapes, and he just couldn't take any more. One more stomp and he'd end up a bitter puddle of whine on the floor. He'd already been fulsomely rejected by Davy…and it wasn't like he wanted Davy to be miserable…but man, it stung and how much more was he supposed to take, anyway? Karma hadn't just run him over – it'd hired a steamroller to finish the job off._

_He just – couldn't stand to see Davy happy with anyone else. Not – not right now. _

"We oughta go down there tomorrow, see if we can't talk them into giving us another shot."

_Plus – they really needed a gig. And just because this chosen course of action happened to thwart Davy's sexual fulfillment…_

"Sounds like a plan to me," Micky said.

_...didn't necessarily mean that it wasn't also the right thing to do._

He took a victorious spoonful of hot water.

* * *

But when they got down to the _Flybynight _the next morning, they found the position had already been filled.

The manager told them with a shrug, "Sorry, boys, but when I thought about it, I realized that the dulcimer has all the sophistication and offbeat sensibility that a hip new club like the _Flybynight _requires."

Mike slumped. "Oh. Well. Give us a call if her fingers ever get…tired…"

They sat on the curb outside the entrance, hands on their knees. "That's that, I guess," Davy said.

"Yeah. But what do we do now?"

"I think we still have half a packet of red hots in my sock drawer," Peter said. "They're all melted and stuck together, but…maybe we could have Red Hot Dogs. Without the dogs. Or the buns."

"So, just red hots, then," Micky commented.

"Sorry Pete. I don't think I could stomach it," Davy told him. "There's got to be something" –

" – more suitable?" Micky finished.

Davy looked at him. "I was going to say more edible."

Micky glanced down at the ground. He could feel Davy staring at him.

"Well, I guess we'd better head home. No use sticking around here," Mike said with a sigh as he got to his feet.

"Hang on a minute – I'm going to see if they'll let me use the bathroom," Davy said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the _Flybynight. _"Maybe they've got some nice soaps in there. Might as well get _something _out of this."

But Davy's expedition took far longer than it should have. In fact, they were just getting ready to mount a rescue mission when he stumbled out onto the street, a crying girl clutched to his chest.

"Just like old times," Mike noted, before squinting at the girl, "Cassie?"

She lifted her head off Davy's chest, still gulping down sobs, and nodded.

"I didn't recognize you without your instrument," Peter said. "What's wrong?"

"I – I" – Cassie managed, before collapsing in tears.

"I ran into her inside," Davy said. "And we got to talking – and…guys, we've gotta help her."

Ten minutes later, Cassie was sitting on the curb, hiccupping softly to herself, while Davy and the others stood in a circle and discussed her predicament.

"We've gotta help her," Davy repeated.

"Davy's right – we've gotta help her," Micky agreed quickly. Maybe a little too quickly.

It wasn't that he _didn't _agree with Davy, or that he _didn't _want to help Cassie. It was just…well, if you put them under a magnifying glass his reasons weren't as clear-cut as Davy's. Or entirely as noble.

"She does seem like she needs our help," Peter added.

The thing was, if obsessively taking notes on Davy's every move had taught him anything, it was this –

_A girl took work._

"Now hold on a minute here," Mike said, palms spread wide. "I'm not saying that she doesn't need help. I'm just saying that maybe she doesn't need _our _help. This sounds like a job for the police to me."

_A girl took effort and preparation._

"Yeah, but if we do that, it'll go on her record. She didn't mean to fall in with those exotic instrument swindlers. She's a good kid – she doesn't deserve that."

_A girl was not a suitable sexual partner, and left very little time for the seeking of same._

"It was the bagpiper's fault – he talked her into it," Peter agreed.

_And sure, it was a temporary solution to a permanent problem, but right now Micky's whole life was held together with sticking plaster and lumps of paste. But still, just because this chosen course of action happened to thwart Davy's sexual fulfillment…_

"You're right," Mike admitted. "We have to help her."

_...didn't necessarily mean that it wasn't also the right thing to do._

He clapped his hands together. "Well, let's get to it! These exotic instrument swindlers aren't going to stop themselves!"

* * *

Except…he had miscalculated. Badly.

Not about the exotic instrument swindlers – they _didn't_ stop themselves.

Not even about the girl, because true to form, untangling Cassie from her problem was like unpicking double-knotted shoelaces, a tricky and tedious endeavour.

No, where Micky got it wrong, was the _aftermath_.

See, everything had gone according to plan. The exotic instrument swindlers were in police custody, the phony aouds and zithers had been confiscated, and Cassie was looking up at Davy with starry eyes, hands clasped under her chin. "How can I ever thank you for what you've done?" she asked.

"It's alright," Davy said. "Really."

So far, so standard damsel-post-distress. However, the next thing she said sent the whole situation spinning in an entirely new and unwelcome direction, like a rogue pinball flipper.

"Well – at least let me introduce you to my brother – there he is!" She waved at a tall, blonde guy who appeared to have taken a taxi to the police station…possibly from Mount Olympus.

Micky swallowed. It felt like he had something stuck in his throat. His heart, probably.

"We're very close – I'm sure he'll be as grateful to you as I am!"

This…was precisely what Micky was afraid of.

And indeed, after this pinnacle of human genetics hugged his sister, he turned to Davy and stuck out his hand. "Dirk," he said. "Thank you."

He didn't release of Davy's hand right away. Nor did Davy seem in any hurry to let go of Dirk's hand. "It's all right," Davy said. "It was nothing."

Micky briefly considered self-castration. Sure, what he was going through right now was basically the same process, just by degrees – and the end result would ultimately be the same, but at least if _he_ were wielding the scalpel, it would be quicker.

"Come on, man," Mike muttered into his ear, obviously having sized Dirk up and come to the same repulsively amatory conclusion, based on Dirk's perfect physique and Davy's…Davy-ness. "You don't need to see this."

But Micky shrugged off his hand, because Mike didn't get it. Of course he didn't want to see it, but that didn't make any difference. He'd already watched this thing play out before.

_And this was just the torturous beginning. _

"He's too modest," Cassie said. "They were all wonderful. Davy saved my _life."_

_Up next was the excruciating middle…_

"Then I have to thank you properly," Dirk decided. "Anything. Name it and I'll do it." He leaned in close to Davy and added, in a low voice, "_Happily._"

…_full of late night movie-dates, early morning walks on the beach, Dirk stopping by the Pad 'just because,' smiling down at Davy and standing way too close to him, and sharing lingering moments on the doorstep whenever he and Davy had to say goodbye. Of course…Davy'd probably need to start stacking a stepladder by the door for those…_

Davy's eyebrows shot up. "Er. Um. That's – well…that's quite an offer, that is. Maybe" –

Dirk bent forward, "…yes?" while Micky looked around for something, _anything, _sharp enough to stab his thigh with.

…_and maybe one day, one late morning, if Micky was unlucky enough (and really, was there even any doubt at this stage?) he'd come back from the beach, and he'd catch Dirk coming out of Davy's room…_

…_but his point was – that that didn't __matter__, it really __didn't matter_ _that the excruciating middle might be followed by the reprieve of a predictable ending… _

"Maybe we could just get to know each other first," Davy finished. "You know – start with the little things, likes, dislikes, hobbies…"

"I like my sister. I like running. I like – you."

"Well, that's – nice. Thank you."

…_because Micky just couldn't take this anymore. _

See, he'd flipped Davy's sexual switch – but he'd never realized that that switch was actually a homing device, guiding a stream of suitable sexual partners to drop right into Davy's lap or to take taxis enabling them to show up in Davy's general vicinity _at speed_.

Like a regular Dr Frankenstein, he'd made a scientific breakthrough and a monster at the same time.

And, like Dr Frankenstein, there was only one thing he could do now – panic wildly and attempt to kill his enemy.

(Metaphorically, of course, because his enemy was six foot three and looked like the physical definition of athleticism).

"Hey – sounds like we've got a lot in common!" Micky said, stepping between him and Davy, and actually causing Davy to stumble slightly to the side.

"What're you doing?" he heard Mike mutter into his ear, but he ignored him.

Dirk frowned down at him. "Who are you?"

"Micky," he said. "Micky Dolenz." He stuck out his hand, but Dirk just stared down at it like it was a disease he didn't want to catch, a line between his eyebrows. After a few seconds Micky pulled his hand back and slipped it into his pocket, but he kept talking, "– and might I say, it's a pleasure to meet a fellow athlete."

"A fellow athlete?" Davy repeated. He stared at Micky, words seeming to curl at the edges with incredulity.

"Who?" Dirk asked.

"Yeah, who, Micky?" Peter said.

"_Me_ – _I'm_ a fellow athlete," Micky told him.

"Dunno if I'd call 'fidgeting' a sport, exactly...s'not going to make it to the Olympics anytime soon, is it?" Davy mused. Micky gritted his teeth and smiled even wider at Dirk.

"You?" Dirk mulled him over.

"Yeah – I mean, can't you tell from my lean, yet compact build? Doesn't it just scream 'runner' to you?"

"You…like to run?" Dirk didn't say it disparagingly, or with derision, but with absolute confusion – which somehow, made it even worse.

"_Like_ to run?" Micky repeated. "I love to run. _Live_ to run. As a matter of fact, sometimes I run to live."

Dirk nodded, but very slowly.

"Hey – I've got a great idea! Why don't _we,_" he gestured between himself and Dirk, "go for a run sometime? You know, for fun…kicks…just a little friendly competition…"

"Micky – what're you doing?" Davy asked.

Micky ignored him, while Dirk continued to take him in. Then, "Okay," he shrugged. "We can race."

"Great!" –

"_Great_?" Mike repeated disbelievingly.

"Why don't we meet on the beach tomorrow morning – bright and early," Micky finished. "Let's say…eight?"

"Eight," Dirk agreed. He turned back to Davy. "And maybe afterwards, you and me could do something together?"

Before Davy could reply, Micky jumped in. "Sure – he'd love to. Provided, of course, that you've got enough energy left after taking me on."

Dirk blinked down at him. "I'll be ready by eight-fifteen," he told Davy.


	8. Chapter 8

Back at the Pad…

"Never knew you were so interested in running before," Davy remarked.

"Oh yeah. It's a lifelong passion. I'm uh – I'm pretty impressive, actually. My nickname back in school used to be, 'Hey, where'd he go?'"

"If you say so." Davy's skepticism was palpable. "But I've never seen you challenge someone to a race before."

"Yeah, well…that's because I – don't usually find anyone worth competing against. I mean – you've got to have something really special to go up against Speedy Dolenz. But the second I saw Smirk" –

"Dirk," Davy corrected.

"Yeah, the second I saw Jerk, I knew he'd give me a run for my money. Strength, determination, a finely honed athleticism…it was just like looking in a mirror."

"Oh, I've seen those," Davy said. "You mean those funhouse mirrors that stretch you out and make you look nothing like yourself, right?"

With dignity, Micky told him, "Listen, Davy – I just…wanted to say I'm sorry."

Davy stared at him. "You're…sorry? What for?"

It took him a second to remember what he wanted to say – mostly because Davy had this look on his face, like he expected Micky to say something really important, kind of tense and a little expectant. It kind of made Micky's own face ache in sympathy. He looked into Davy's eyes, reminding himself why exactly he was doing this. "Making Squirt late for his breakfast-date with you."

It took Davy a second to reply. "That's all right. I don't mind waiting, after all, Dirk – he's, he's…well, he's handsome, resplendent, er…tall…"

"I think I should warn you, he's probably not going to take defeat well. Just a – friendly warning. I know the type."

Davy blinked, then looked away from Micky as he said, "All right. Consider me warned."

* * *

Later, after what Peter accidentally kept referring to as Micky's 'last meal', he clutched at Micky's sleeve and said, "Don't do it, Micky! It's gonna end up just like that news report on Pamplona!"

Mike expressed similar, though more muted reservations. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, when they were alone in their bedroom.

"Of course I want to do it," Micky said. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Well…the fact that you just challenged some guy who looks like he oughta be advertising sports equipment to a race."

"But that's why it's so perfect," Micky told him. "I mean – does that guy look like he knows the meaning of 'losing'?"

"Well, no," Mike admitted.

"Exactly! That's why it's going to come as such a crushing blow to his masculine self-esteem when I beat him tomorrow. His confidence is gonna be so shaken, he'll never have the courage to make a play for Davy."

Mike frowned. "I guess that makes sense…except for two things. First of all – how can you be so sure you're gonna beat him?"

"Easy," Micky said. "I may not be the most athletic person in the world, but if there's one thing I know how to do, it's make a run for it."

Mike had to tip his head in acknowledgment.

"Besides, that guy's got all that heavy muscle weighing him down. Trust me, beating him's gonna be a piece of cake. What's the second thing?"

"How can you be so sure that beating him's going to knock his self-confidence?"

"Close your eyes, and think about him," Micky advised Mike. Mike did so. "Now – open them, and look at me." Again, Mike obliged. "Imagine you looked like _him_, and you had to tell people that someone who looked like _me_ beat you in a race."

He waited, eyebrows raised.

"Man – that guy's gonna skedaddle outta here so fast, he'll leave skidmarks on the beach," Mike marveled.

* * *

And, at first, that looked like how things might work out.

Micky jogged onto the beach promptly at eight, to find Dirk stretching behind a sand dune, an Adonis in running shorts. "You ready?" he asked.

"Oh I'm ready," Micky said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

It was somewhere around the third lap of the shore that he realized his mistake. Sure, Micky'd started with an impressive lead, tearing ahead like he was being chased by a whole horde of nefarious exotic instrument swindlers – and he'd begun to imagine the twisted look of disbelief and horror on Dirk's face at the end of this race…

…except that, instead of coming closer, the way it should have, the finish line seemed to recede further into the distance with every steady, untiring stride Dirk took.

The various villains and ne'er-do-wells who'd given chase to Micky in the past had given up a lot faster than this. Maybe his mother _was_ right – maybe 'lawless' was just another word for lazy.

Around the fifth lap, he couldn't hear anything over the screaming in his calves. Slowly, Dirk gained on him, face impassive, arms and legs moving him forward, inexorable, unstoppable, like a man-shaped machine.

Micky put on a last, desperate burst of speed, arms windmilling, heart hammering in his chest.

This was _important. _This was about _taking a stand. _This was about _making a point._

This was…okay, this was about proving, even if it was only to himself, that he was _better _than this guy, even if Davy didn't seem to see it.

_And he wasn't going to fail. _

At that moment, he tripped over a rock and landed face down in the sand. Dirk jogged smoothly past him, and Micky braced his arms to push himself up, but they were limp as cooked spaghetti, and the attempt ended with him sprawled out once again, face-down. He gritted his teeth (made easier by the presence of actual sand in his mouth), and kicked out with his legs, while his arms weakly churned the sand, in a kind of swim/crawl hybrid. It didn't work.

Summoning every last reserve of energy, Micky tried levitation. When that didn't work, he gave up and just lay there, inhaling sand grains and aching, just waiting for the tide to come in and wash him away.

Instead, Dirk finished his lap, then made his way back to Micky.

"You okay?" he asked.

Micky didn't have the strength to answer.

Dirk sighed, then bent down and slung him over his shoulder.

* * *

Back in the Pad, Dirk dropped him onto the floor with a brief, "Here," to Davy – like he was a caveman and Micky some animal he thought would look great as a rug.

"Micky – are you all right?" The Davy looking worriedly into his eyes was upside-down. He was quickly joined by upside-down Peter and upside-down Mike.

He made a noise.

"What happened?"

"He fell," Dirk said helpfully. "You know, he's not much of a runner at all. Don't let him enter any marathons. I'd hate for the poor guy to be embarrassed." He smiled at Davy. "So – you want pancakes?"

Micky stared hopelessly up at Davy's chin, while Davy looked at Dirk. "Um – actually…could you help bring him upstairs?"

"Sure," Dirk said. He hefted Micky up once again, before quickly jolting him up the stairs.

"Where do you want him?" Dirk asked.

"Try him by the window," Davy said. But when Dirk lowered him into the red chair by the window, he cocked his head to the side and said, "Actually, maybe he'd be better in the armchair."

Uncomplainingly, Dirk hauled him out of the red chair and deposited him across the room, into the cushioned armchair.

"Nah," Davy said. "S'all wrong. Makes the space look cluttered. I think you'd better just leave him on the bed."

And so, for the last time, Dirk lifted him up. "Ow," he said.

"Are you all right?" Davy asked. "Is Micky too heavy?"

Dirk shook his head. "It's not that. Something just stuck into my shoe – I think it was one of those gears."

Micky felt a small, tired stab of pleasure.

The bed was soft and firm – the perfect surface for curling up into a ball of pain. He hardly noticed the dip of the bed as Davy sat down, though the touch of Davy's hand against his face made him open his eyes. "You all right?" he said.

There really wasn't a good answer for that, so Micky turned his face away into the pillow.

Before he got up, Davy said, "You should – probably try to get some rest."

* * *

When he woke up, it was late in the evening. He raised himself up on his elbows and winced. It felt like all his bones needed oiling. He sat up further, then began a more detailed self-examination. He held his right wrist in his left hand, and bent it back and forth.

For a second, he thought the slight creaking noise was coming from said wrist, and it was only when Davy said, "How are you feeling?" that he realized it had come from the door.

"Rusty," he said.

"M'not surprised." Davy looked at him. "You know, Mike said I should talk to you. He said something about how 'enough was enough' and if you didn't tell me why you pulled this latest stunt, _he _would. Through charades, if he had to."

"What did Peter say?" Micky asked, stalling for time.

"Three words. A film. _Beach Blanket Bingo._"

There was a silence. Micky stared down at the blankets.

"How was breakfast?" he asked, because he _did – didn't – didn't –did _want to know.

"Didn't go."

His head jerked up, neck squeaking in pain. "Why not?"

Davy shrugged easily. "Dunno. Didn't feel like pancakes."

Micky stared at him.

_You just have to work up your nerve, and go for it._

Well, it turned out Davy was wrong – because what _Micky_ needed in order to go for it, was the complete absence of nerve. All the nerve had been pounded out of him with a combination of humiliation and sand. He was too tired and bruised to _care_, anymore.

So when Davy looked him up and down with long, soft sweeps of his eyes, taking in everything, and said, "You look awful. Why'd you do it, Micky? Really." it was actually easy.

"You."

Davy blinked. "Me?"

"Because I'm hung up on you in a big way," he admitted, with blunt, exhausted honesty, "and I thought, hey, if I could just beat that guy in a race, maybe I'd knock his confidence enough that he wouldn't ask you out and I wouldn't have to watch you two be together and I'd never have to see him come out of your bedroom with his shirt untucked. It didn't work," he admitted, almost as an afterthought.

"You" – Davy began, only to stop almost immediately. "You – _that _was why?"

Micky nodded, then winced and kneaded his neck. "But hey – it's okay," he said, "Because I've just figured out how to fix this."

"What? How?" Davy asked. He seemed confused.

"You need to shoot me down, right now. I'm at my lowest ebb, I've got no defences, no nothing – so if you reject me now, that's it. There's no way I can ever fool myself into thinking that I've got a shot. And then – maybe I can start getting over you."

Davy looked at him. "So…you want me to – what? Say no to you?"

"Say _never_ – just to be safe," Micky told him.

"You want me to tell you I'm not interested, that I'm never _going _to be interested, that this is all a waste of your time, just some stupid crush, and you need to just – get over it…is that right?"

"Lay it on me," Micky said. He braced himself, grimacing as his bones protested said bracing.

Davy took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Micky," he said, and he _did _look sorry. "_I can't_."

Micky inhaled. Exhaled. Slumped a little. "It's okay, Davy," he said. "I mean, it was a long shot anyway, I can't help how I feel, and you can't help feeling the exact same way about me and" –

He paused. Held up a finger. Asked, very calmly, and only at a slightly higher pitch than normal, "What did you say?"

Davy shrugged. "I said _no_."

Micky thought about it. "But if you said no – and no means 'yes,' or at least 'maybe,' then that means – that you" –

"Like you," Davy finished. He looked at Micky expectantly, then admitted, "Yeah. Maybe more."

"That can't be right," Micky decided. "We should talk this thing out again. I have a feeling we got our wires crossed somewhere."

"I think we should have sex," Davy said.

"Um. Well. See, that's – that's…probably not a good idea?" Micky hazarded.

Davy slid a hand around the back of his neck and kissed him.

"...Okay," Micky said, and kissed him back. He wrapped his arms around the small of Davy's back and tugged him down onto the bed.

His bones creaked in protest. His bruised skin whimpered. His back hummed in pain with every minute shift in position. It was every bit as good as Micky remembered (though much sandier).

Actually, it was better, because this time, Davy stayed.

Afterwards, he tried to keep as still as he could, like it was some kind of good luck charm, like if he moved, Davy'd vanish, or he'd wake up, or Davy'd just…leave. So he remained motionless, until finally his fingertips were twitching and he just couldn't stop himself from flicking sand-grains off Davy's shoulders.

He still didn't leave, and Micky asked, "So…when did this happen?"

Davy twisted around with a frown, and laid the back of his hand against Micky's forehead. "Just now – don't you remember? D'you think you could have come down with heatstroke?"

"I didn't mean _that. _I meant – _this,_" he explained, gesturing incomprehensibly between himself and Davy at the words 'that' and 'this.'

Davy seemed to understand, though he didn't answer right away. Maybe he couldn't – this thing had seemed to hit right out of nowhere. Maybe Davy was really attracted to dehydrated wannabe athletes with sand in their hair. Maybe he had a soft spot for the underdog. Maybe there was a blue moon outside.

Absently, Micky began calculating just how he might replicate these once-in-a-lifetime circumstances. Build a time machine. Take up voodoo. Drop Mr Zero a line…

"Dunno," Davy said, finally. "It just sort of happened gradually. I mean, there I was with Clarabel, but you kept – holding my hand, or looking at me, and I started wanting – _this." _He tangled their fingers together and rested their joined hands on Micky's stomach.

Micky stared at the top of his head. "Clarabel?" he said. "You, since – _Clarabel?_"

"What?" Davy asked.

Micky flung his free hand wide. "If you wanted me that whole time, then what was all that stuff with – with Freddie, and Dirt!"

Davy pushed himself up a bit to argue better. "Well, I didn't know until an hour ago that _you_ wanted _me. _What was I supposed to do – pine away?"

"It would've been nice!" Micky said. "And hey – what do you mean you didn't know until an hour ago? I practically turned myself inside out trying to figure out what you really wanted."

"Yeah – but every time I asked you about it, you said that was because of scientific curiosity. I didn't know if you wanted _me, _or if you just wanted to prove your _hypothesis_," Davy said. "S'not like I _knew. _I mean, you wanted me to break up with Clarabel…but you kept pushing these other guys at me. It was _confusing_."

"I did _not _push guys at you," Micky said, firmly.

"'_He fell right into your lap'?"_ Davy mimicked. "_'I'd be happy to!'? 'Why would I mind?' 'He'd love to'_?"

"Maybe it was a _little_ confusing for you," Micky allowed.

Apparently satisfied with this, Davy dropped his head down onto Micky's shoulder again. Micky looked down at his shiny, slightly sandy hair, and felt his arms tighten around Davy.

It was just…he had what he'd wanted so badly, and – and it _was_ exactly what he wanted, but…well, Davy was _Davy (_and Micky was just _Micky), _and even when Davy'd been hung up on him, there'd still been Freddie and Lurk, and…

How did he know that this was _it _for Davy?

He shook his head. He was being dumb. He couldn't just demand an unlimited warranty like that.

Anyway, was there even anything Davy could say or do that would amount to that lifetime guarantee? No, he just had to hang on to Davy as long as he could and hope that Davy felt as strongly as he did about this.

Just then, Davy raised his head. He said, "You know, I didn't think I'd like it, but I do. It's nice. Different than I thought it would be."

"What?" Micky asked.

He smiled at Micky, an open smile, without any edges, and said, "The End."

And Micky felt himself smiling back.


End file.
